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JACKANAPES. 


DADDY  DARWIN'S  DOVECOT. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  SHORT  LIFE. 


BY 


JULIANA    HORATIA   EWING, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SIX  TO   SIXTEEN,"    "jAN   OF   THE  WINDMILL," 

ETC. 


WITH  A    SKETCH   OF  HER   LIFE    BY  HER    SISTER, 
HORATIA    K.   F.    GATTY. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1889. 


85nfbfrsits  $ress: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


JULIANA    HORATIA    EWING 
AND    HER    BOOKS. 


All  hearts  grew  warmer  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  : 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds. 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace  ; 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light  with  thought  the  maiden's  face. 


O  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green  pastures,  blossom-sown, 
And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 

As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 

Thou  com'st  not  from  the  hush  and  shadow 
To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come  ; 

With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 
And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home. 


A  Memorial.  —  John  G.  Whittier. 


PART   I. 

En  fftcmoriam 
JULIANA   HORATIA, 

SECOND   DAUGHTER   OF  THE   REV.   ALFRED   GATTY,   D.D.,   AND 
MARGARET,    HIS   WIFE, 

BORN   AT   ECCLESF1ELD,   YORKSHIRE,   AUGUST  3,    184I, 

MARRIED  JUNE   I,    1867,  TO   ALEXANDER   EWING,   MAJOR,   A.P.D., 

DIED  AT  BATH,   MAY    1 3,    1 885, 

BURIED   AT  TRULL,    SOMERSET,    MAY    l6,    1885. 


HAVE  promised  the  children  to  write  something 
for  them  about  their  favorite  story-teller,  Juliana 
Horatia  Ewing,  because  I  am  sure  they  will  like 
to  read  it. 

I  well  remember  how  eagerly  I  devoured  the  Life  of  my 
favorite  author,  Hans  Christian  Andersen  ;  how  anxious  I 
was  to  send  a  subscription  to  the  memorial  statue  of  him, 
which  was  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  Public  Garden  at 
Copenhagen,  where  children  yet  play  at  his  feet ;  and,  still 
further,  to  send  some  flowers  to  his  newly  filled  grave  by  the 
hand  of  one  who,  more  fortunate  than  myself,  had  the  chance 
of  visiting  the  spot. 

I  think  that  the  point  which  children  will  be  most  anxious 
to  know  about  Mrs.  Ewing  is  how  she  wrote  her  stories. 


6   WE  HAVE  NOT  WINGS,  WE  CANNOT  SOAR, 

Did  she  evolve  the  plots  and  characters  entirely  out  of  her 
own  mind,  or  were  they  in  any  way  suggested  by  the  occur- 
rences and  people  around  her? 

The  best  plan  of  answering  such  questions  will  be  for  me 
to  give  a  list  of  her  stor-ies  in  succession  as  they  were  written, 
and  to  tell,  as  far  as  I  can,  what  gave  rise  to  them  in  my 
sister's  mind ;  in  doing  this  we  shall  find  that  an  outline 
biography  of  her  will  naturally  follow.  Nearly  all  her  writ- 
ings first  appeared  in  the  pages  of  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine," 
and  as  we  realize  this  fact  we  shall  see  how  close  her  con- 
nection with  it  was,  and  cease  to  wonder  that  the  Magazine 
should  end  after  her  death. 

Those  who  lived  with  my  sister  have  no  difficulty  in  trac- 
ing likenesses  between  some  of  the  characters  in  her  books 
and  many  whom  she  met  in  real  life  ;  but  let  me  say,  once 
for  all,  that  she  never  drew  "  portraits  "  of  people,  and  even 
if  some  of  us  now  and  then  caught  glimpses  of  ourselves 
under  the  clothing  she  had  robed  us  in,  we  only  felt  ashamed 
to  think  how  unlike  we  really  were  to  the  glorified  beings 
whom  she  put  before  the  public. 

Still  less  did  she  ever  do  with  her  pen,  what  an  artistic 
family  of  children  used  to  threaten  to  do  with  their  pencils 
when  they  were  vexed  with  each  other,  namely,  to  "  draw 
you  ugly." 

It  was  one  of  the  strongest  features  in  my  sister's  character 
that  she  "  received  but  what  she  gave,"  and  threw  such  a 
halo  of  syjnpathy  and  trust  round  every  one  she  came  in 
contact  with,  that  she  seemed  to  see  them  "  with  larger  other 
eyes  than  ours,"  and  treated  them  accordingly.  On  the 
whole,  I  am  sure  this  was  good  in  its  results,  though  the  pain 
occasionally  of  awakening  to  disappointment  was  acute ;  but 
she  generally  contrived  to  cover  up  the  wound  with  some 


BUT    WE    HAVE    FEET   TO    SCALE    AND    CLIMB.      J 

new  shoot  of  hope.  On  those  in  whom  she  trusted  I  think 
her  faith  acted  favorably.  I  recollect  one  friend,  whose  con- 
science did  not  allow  him  to  rest  quite  easily  under  the  rosy 
light  through  which  he  felt  he  was  viewed,  saying  to  her: 
"  It 's  the  trust  that  such  women  as  you  repose  in  us  men, 
which  makes  us  desire  to  become  more  like  what  you  believe 
us  to  be." 

If  her  universal  sympathy  sometimes  led  her  to  what  we 
might  hastily  consider  "waste  her  time  "  on  the  petty  inter- 
ests and  troubles  of  people  who  appeared  to  us  unworthy, 
what  were  we  that  we  should  blame  her  ?  The  value  of  each 
soul  is  equal  in  God's  sight ;  and  when  the  books  are  opened 
there  may  be  more  entries  than  we  now  can  count  of  hearts 
comforted,  self-respect  restored,  and  souls  raised  by  her  help 
to  fresh  love  and  trust  in  God,  —  ay,  even  of  old  sins  and 
deeds  of  shame  turned  into  rungs  on  the  ladder  to  heaven 
by  feet  that  have  learned  to  tread  the  evil  beneath  them.  It 
was  this  well-spring  of  sympathy  in  her  which  made  my 
sister  rejoice  as  she  did  in  the  teaching  of  the  now  Chaplain- 
General,  Dr.  J.  C.  Edghill,  when  he  was  yet  attached  to  the 
iron  church  in  the  South  Camp,  Aldershot.  "  He  preaches 
the  gospel  of  Hope,"  she  said ;  hope,  that  is,  in  the  latent 
power  which  lies  hidden  even  in  the  worst  of  us,  ready  to 
take  fire  when  touched  by  the  Divine  flame,  and  burn  up  its 
old  evil  into  a  light  that  will  shine  to  God's  glory  before  men. 
I  still  possess  the  epitome  of  one  of  these  "  hopeful "  sermons, 
which  she  sent  me  in  a  letter  after  hearing  the  chaplain 
preach  on  the  two  texts:  "What  meanest  thou.  O  sleeper? 
arise,  call  upon  thy  God  ;  "  "Awake,  thou  that  sleepest,  and 
arise  from  the  dead,  and  Christ  shall  give  thee  light." 

It  has  been  said  that,  in  his  story  of  "  The  Old  Bachelor's 
Nightcap,"  Hans  Andersen  recorded  something  of  his  own 


8  MADAM    LIBERALITY. 

career.  I  know  not  if  this  be  true,  but  certainly  in  her  story 
of  "  Madam  Liberality ' ' 1  Mrs.  Ewing  drew  a  picture  of  her 
own  character  that  can  never  be  surpassed.  She  did  this 
quite  unintentionally,  I  know,  and  believed  that  she  was  only 
giving  her  own  experiences  of  suffering  under  quinsy,  in 
combination  with  some  record  of  the  virtues  of  one  whose 
powers  of  courage,  uprightness,  and  generosity  under  ill- 
health  she  had  always  regarded  with  deep  admiration.  Pos- 
sibly the  virtues  were  hereditary,  —  certainly  the  original 
owner  of  them  was  a  relation ;  but,  however  this  may  be, 
Madam  Liberality  bears  a  wonderfully  strong  likeness  to  my 
sister,  and  she  used  to  be  called  by  a  great  friend  of  ours  the 
"  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart,"  from  the  quotation  which 
appears  at  the  head  of  the  tale. 

The  same  friend  is  now  a  bishop  in  another  hemisphere 
from,  ours,  but  he  will  ever  be  reckoned  a  "  great "  friend. 
Our  bonds  of  friendship  were  tied  during  hours  of  sorrow  in 
the  house  of  mourning,  and  such  as  these  are  not  broken  by 
after-divisions  of  space  and  time.  Mrs.  Ewing  named  him 
"  Jachin,"  from  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  Temple,  on  account 
of  his  being  a  pillar  of  strength  at  that  time  to  us. 

All  my  earliest  recollections  of  Julie  (as  I  must  call  her) 
picture  her  as  at  once  the  projector  and  manager  of  all  our 
nursery  doings.  Even  if  she  tyrannized  over  us  by  always 
arranging  things  according  to  her  own  fancy,  we  did  not 
rebel,  we  relied  so  habitually  and  entirely  on  her  to  originate 
every  fresh  plan  and  idea ;  and  I  am  sure  that  in  our  turn 
we  often  tyrannized  over  her  by  reproaching  her  when  any  of 
what  we  called  her  "  projukes  "  ended  in  "  mulls,"  or  when 
she  paused  for  what  seemed  to  us  a  longer  five  minutes  than 

1  Reprinted  in  "  A  Great  Emergency." 


NURSERY    TALES.  9 

usual  in  the  middle  of  some  story  she  was  telling,  to  think 
what  the  next  incident  should  be. 

It  amazes  me  now  to  realize  how  unreasonable  we  were  in 
our  impatience,  and  how  her  powers  of  invention  ever  kept 
pace  with  our  demands.  These  early  stories  were  influenced 
to  some  extent  by  the  books  that  she  then  liked  best  to  read, 
—  Grimm,  Andersen,  and  Bechstein's  fairy  tales  ;  to  the  last 
writer  I  believe  we  owed  her  story  about  a  Wizard,  which 
was  one  of  our  chief  favorites.  Not  that  she  copied  Bech- 
stein  in  any  way,  for  we  read  his  tales  too,  and  would  not 
have  submitted  to  anything  approaching  a  recapitulation ; 
but  the  character  of  the  little  Wizard  was  one  which  fasci- 
nated her,  and  even  more  so,  perhaps,  the  quaint  picture  of 
him,  which  stood  at  the  head  of  the  tale  ;  and  she  wove 
round  this  skeleton  idea  a  rambling  romance  from  her  own 
fertile  imagination. 

I  have  specially  alluded  to  the  picture,  because  my  sister's 
artistic  as  well  as  literary  powers  were  so  strong  that  through 
all  her  life  the  two  ever  ran  side  by  side,  each  aiding  and 
developing  the  other,  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  speak  of  them 
apart. 

Many  of  the  stories  she  told  us  in  childhood  were  inspired 
by  some  fine  woodcuts  in  a  German  "ABC  book,"  that 
we  could  none  of  us  then  read,  and  in  later  years  some  of 
her  best  efforts  were  suggested  by  illustrations,  and  written 
to  fit  them.  I  know,  too,  that  in  arranging  the  plots  and 
wording  of  her  stories  she  followed  the  rules  that  are  pursued 
by  artists  in  composing  their  pictures.  She  found  great 
difficulty  in  preventing  herself  from  "  overcrowding  her 
canvas  "  with  minor  characters,  owing  to  her  tendency  to 
throw  herself  into  complete  sympathy  with  whatever  creature 
she  touched  ;  and,  sometimes,  —  particularly  in  tales  which 


IO  WINDMILLS. 

came  out  as  serials,  when  she  wrote  from  month  to  month, 
and  had  no  opportunity  of  correcting  the  composition  as  a 
whole,  —  she  was  apt  to  give  undue  prominence  to  minor 
details,  and  throw  her  high  lights  on  to  obscure  corners,  in- 
stead of  concentrating  them  on  the  central  point.  These 
artistic  rules  kept  her  humor  and  pathos  —  like  light  and 
shade  —  duly  balanced,  and  made  the  lights  she  "  left  out " 
some  of  the  most  striking  points  of  her  work. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  stories  she  told  us  as  children. 
Another  of  our  favorite  ones  related  to  a  Cavalier  who  hid  in 
an  underground  passage  connected  with  a  deserted  Wind- 
mill on  a  lonely  moor.  It  is  needless  to  say  that,  as  we 
were  brought  up  on  Marryat's  "  Children  of  the  New  Forest," 
and  possessed  an  aunt  who  always  went  into  mourning  for 
King  Charles  on  January  30,  our  sympathies  were  entirely 
devoted  to  the  Stuarts'  cause  ;  and  this  persecuted  Cavalier, 
with  his  big  hat  and  boots,  long  hair  and  sorrows,  was  our 
best  beloved  hero.  We  would  always  let  Julie  tell  us  the 
"  Windmill  Story  "  over  again,  when  her  imagination  was  at 
a  loss  for  a  new  one.  Windmills,  I  suppose  from  their  pic- 
turesqueness,  had  a  very  strong  attraction  for  her.  There 
were  none  near  our  Yorkshire  home,  so,  perhaps,  their  rarity 
added  to  their  value  in  her  eyes ;  certain  it  is  that  she  was 
never  tired  of  sketching  them,  and  one  of  her  latest  note- 
books is  full  of  the  old  mill  at  Frimley,  Hants,  taken  under 
various  aspects  of  sunset  and  storm.  Then  Holland,  with 
its  low  horizons  and  rows  of  windmills,  was  the  first  foreign 
land  she  chose  to  visit,  and  the  "Dutch  Story,"  one  of  her 
earliest  written  efforts,  remains  an  unfinished  fragment ;  while 
"Jan  of  the  Windmill"  owes  much  of  its  existence  to  her 
early  love  for  these  quaint  structures. 

It  was  not  only  in  the  matter  of  fairy  tales  that  Julie  reigned 


DEEP   MEANING  IN   CHILDISH   PLAY.  II 

supreme  in  the  nursery,  she  presided  equally  over  our  games 
and  amusements.  In  matters  such  as  garden-plots,  when 
she  and  our  eldest  sister  could  each  have  one  of  the  same 
size,  they  did  so ;  but,  when  it  came  to  there  being  one  bower, 
devised  under  the  bending  branches  of  a  lilac  bush,  then  the 
laws  of  seniority  were  disregarded,  and  it  was  "  Julie's 
Bower."  Here,  on  benches  made  of  narrow  boards  laid 
on  inverted  flower-pots,  we  sat  and  listened  to  her  stories ; 
here  was  kept  the  discarded  dinner-bell,  used  at  the  funerals 
of  our  pet  animals,  and  which  she  introduced  into  "  The 
Burial  of  the  Linnet."  Near  the  Bower  we  had  a  chapel, 
dedicated  to  Saint  Christopher,  and  a  sketch  of  it  is  still  ex- 
tant, which  was  drawn  by  our  eldest  sister,  who  was  the  chief 
builder  and  care-taker  of  the  shrine;  hence  started  the  funeral 
processions,  both  of  our  pets  and  of  the  stray  birds  and  beasts 
we  found  unburied.  In  "Brothers  of  Pity"1  Julie  gave 
her  hero  the  same  predilection  for  burying  that  we  had 
indulged  in. 

She  invented  names  for  the  spots  that  we  most  frequented 
in  our  walks,  such  as  "The  Mermaid's  Ford,"  and  "St. 
Nicholas."  The  latter  covered  a  space  including  several 
fields  and  a  clear  stream,  and  over  this  locality  she  certainly 
reigned  supreme ;  our  gathering  of  violets  and  cowslips,  or 
of  hips  and  haws  for  jam,  and  our  digging  of  earth-nuts  were 
limited  by  her  orders.  I  do  not  think  she  ever  attempted 
to  exercise  her  prerogative  over  the  stream  ;  I  am  sure  that, 
whenever  we  caught  sight  of  a  dark  tuft  of  slimy  Batracho- 
spermum  in  its  clear  depths,  we  plunged  in  to  secure  it  for 
mother,  whether  Julie  or  any  other  Naiad  liked  it  or  no  ! 
But  "  the  splendor  in  the  grass  and  glory  in  the  flower  "  that 
we  found  in  St.  Nicholas  was  very  deep  and  real,  thanks 
1  Brothers  of  Pity,  and  other  Tales  of  Beasts  and  Men 


12  PRIVATE    THEATRICALS. 

to  all  she  wove  around  the  spot  for  us.  Even  in  childhood 
she  must  have  felt,  and  imparted  to  us,  a  great  deal  of  what 
she  put  into  the  hearts  of  the  children  in  "Our  Field."  l  To 
me  this  story  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  her  compositions, 
and  deeply  characteristic  of  the  strong  power  she  possessed 
of  drawing  happiness  from  little  things,  in  spite  of  the  hin- 
drances caused  by  weak  health.  Her  fountain  of  hope  and 
thankfulness  never  ran  dry. 

Some  of  the  indoor  amusements  over  which  Julie  exercised 
great  influence  were  our  theatricals.  Her  powers  of  imitation 
were  strong;  indeed,  my  mother's  story  of  "Joachim  the 
Mimic"  was  written,  when  Julie  was  very  young,  rather  to 
check  this  habit  which  had  early  developed  in  her.  She  al- 
ways took  what  may  be  called  the  "  walking  gentleman's  " 
part  in  our  plays.  Miss  Corner's  Series  came  first,  and  then 
Julie  was  usually  a  Prince  ;  but  after  we  advanced  to  farces, 
her  most  successful  character  was  that  of  the  commercial 
traveller,  Charley  Beeswing,  in  "Twenty  Minutes  with  a 
Tiger."  "  Character  "  parts  were  what  she  liked  best  to 
take,  and  in  later  years,  when  aiding  in  private  theatricals  at 
Aldershot  Camp,  the  piece  she  most  enjoyed  was  "  Helping 
Hands,"  in  which  she  acted  Tilda,  with  Captain  F.  G. 
Slade,  R.  A.  as  Shockey,  and  Major  Evving  as  the  blind 
musician. 

The  last  time  she  acted  was  at  Shoeburyness,  where  she 
was  the  guest  of  her  friends  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Strangways, 
and  when  Captain  Goold-Adams  and  his  wife  also  took  part 
in  the  entertainment.  The  terrible  news  of  Colonel  Strang- 
ways' and  Captain  Goold-Adams's  deaths  from  the  explosion 
at  Shoebury  in  February,  1885,  reached  her  while  she  was 
very  ill,  and  shocked  her  greatly ;  though  she  often  alluded 
1  A  Great  Emergency,  and  other  Tales. 


PARISH   WORK.  13 

to  the  help  she  got  from  thinking  of  Colonel  Strangways' 
unselfishness,  courage,  and  submission  during  his  last  hours, 
and  trying  to  bear  her  own  sufferings  in  the  same  spirit.  She 
was  so  much  pleased  with  the  description  given  of  his  grave 
being  lined  with  moss,  and  lilac  crocuses,  that  when  her  own 
had  to  be  dug  it  was  lined  in  a  similar  way.    ■ 

But  let  us  go  back  to  her  in  the  nursery,  and  recall  how, 
in  spite  of  very  limited  pocket-money,  she  was  always  the 
presiding  genius  over  birthday  and  Christmas-tree  gifts  ; 
and  the  true  Saint  Nicholas  who  filled  the  stockings  that 
the  "  little  ones "  tied,  in  happy  confidence,  to  their  bed- 
posts. 

As  she  emerged  from  the  nursery  and  began  to  take  an 
interest  in  our  village  neighbors,  her  taste  for  "  projects  "  was 
devoted  to  their  interests.  It  was  her  energy  that  established 
a  lending  library  in  1859,  which  still  remains  a  flourishing 
institution  ;  but  all  her  attempts  were  not  crowned  with  equal 
success.  She  often  recalled,  with  great  amusement,  how,  the 
first  day  on  which  she  distributed  tracts  as  a  District  Visitor, 
an  old  lady  of  limited  ideas  and  crabbed  disposition  called  in 
the  evening  to  restore  the  tract  which  had  been  lent  to  her, 
remarking  that  she  had  brought  it  back  and  required  no 
more,  as,  —  "  My  'usband  does  not  attend  the  public  'ouse, 
and  we  've  no  unrewly  children  !  " 

My  sister  had  also  a  class  for  young  women,  which  was 
held  in  the  vicarage  because  she  was  so  often  prevented  by 
attacks  of  quinsy  from  going  to  the  school ;  indeed,  at  this 
time,  as  the  mother  of  some  of  her  ex-pupils  only  lately 
remarked,  "  Miss  Julie  were  always  cayling." 

The  first  stories  that  she  published  belong  to  this  so-to- 
speak  "  parochial "  phase  of  her  life,  when  her  interests  were 
chiefly  divided  between  the  nursery  and  the  village.     "A 


14  TRAVELS. 

Bit  of  Green  "  came  out  in  the  "  Monthly  Packet "  in  July, 
1861;  "The  Blackbird's  Nest"  in  August,  1861  ;  "  Mel- 
chior's  Dream  "in  December,  1861 ;  and  these  three  tales, 
with  two  others,  which  had  not  been  previously  published 
("  Friedrich's  Ballad  "  and  "  The  Viscount's  Friend  "),  were 
issued  in  a  volume  called  "  Melchior's  Dream  and  other 
Tales,"  in  1862.  The  proceeds  of  the  first  edition  of  this 
book  gave  Madam  Liberality  the  opportunity  of  indulg- 
ing in  her  favorite  virtue.  She  and  her  eldest  sister,  who 
illustrated  the  stories,  first  devoted  the  "  tenths  "  of  their 
respective  earnings  for  letterpress  and  pictures  to  buying 
some  hangings  for  the  sacrarium  of  Ecclesfield  Church,  and 
then  Julie  treated  two  of  her  sisters,  who  were  out  of  health, 
to  Whitby  for  change  of  air.  Three  years  later,  out  of  some 
other  literary  earnings,  she  took  her  eldest  brother  to  Ant- 
werp and  Holland,  to  see  the  city  of  Rubens's  pictures,  and 
the  land  of  canals,  windmills,  and  fine  sunsets.  The  expe- 
dition had  to  be  conducted  on  principles  which  savored 
more  of  strict  integrity  and  economy  than  of  comfort, 
for  they  went  in  a  small  steamer  from  Hull  to  Antwerp ; 
but  Julie  feasted  her  eyes  and  brain  on  all  the  fresh  sights 
and  sounds  she  encountered,  and  filled  her  sketch-book  with 
pictures. 

"  It  was  at  Rotterdam,"  wrote  her  brother,  "  that  I  left  her 
with  her  camp-stool  and  water-colors  for  a  moment  in  the 
street,  to  find  her,  on  my  return,  with  a  huge  crowd  round 
her,  behind  and  before,  —  a  baker's  man  holding  back  a  blue 
veil  that  would  blow  before  her  eyes,  —  and  she  sketching 
down  an  avenue  of  spectators,  to  whom  she  kept  motion- 
ing with  her  brush  to  stand  aside.  Perfectly  unconscious 
she  was  of  how  she  looked,  and  I  had  great  difficulty 
in   getting   her  to  pack   up  and   move   on.     Every  quaint 


MAY   THE   OPEN   HAND   BE   FULLEST!  15 

Dutch    boat,   e^ery   queer    street,   every    peasant   in   gold 
ornaments,  was  a  treasure  for  her  note-book.     We  were  very 

happy  ! " 

I  doubt,  indeed,  whether  her  companion  has  experienced 
greater  enjoyment  during  any  of  his  later  and  more  luxurious 
visits  to  the  same  spots  ;  the  first  sight  of  a  foreign  country 
must  remain  a  unique  sensation. 

It  was  not  the  intrinsic  value  of  Julie's  gifts  to  us  that 
made  them  so  precious,  but  the  wide-hearted  spirit  which 
always  prompted  them.  Out  of  a  moderate  income  she 
could  only  afford  to  be  generous  from  her  constant  habit  of 
thinking  first  for  others,  and  denying  herself.  It  made  little 
difference  whether  the  gift  was  elevenpen,ce-three-farthings' 
worth  of  modern  Japanese  pottery,  which  she  seized  upon  as 
just  the  right  shape  and  color  to  fit  some  niche  on  one  of  our 
shelves,  or  a  copy  of  the  edition  de  luxe  of  "  Evangeline," 
with  Frank  Dicksee's  magnificent  illustrations,  which  she 
ordered  one  day  to  be  included  in  the  parcel  of  a  sister,  who 
had  been  judiciously  laying  out  a  small  sum  on  the  purchase 
of  cheap  editions  of  standard  works,  not  daring  to  look  into 
the  tempting  volume  for  fear  of  coveting  it.  When  the  carrier 
brought  home  the  unexpectedly  large  parcel  that  night,  it 
was  difficult  to  say  whether  the  receiver  or  the  giver  was  the 
happier. 

My  turn  came  once  to  be  taken  by  Julie  to  the  sea  for  rest 
(June,  1874),  and  then  one  of  the  chief  enjoyments  lay  in 
the  unwonted  luxury  of  being  allowed  to  choose  my  own 
route.  Freedom  of  choice  to  a  wearied  mind  is  quite  as 
refreshing  as  ozone  to  an  exhausted  body.  Julie  had  none  of 
the  petty  tyranny  about  her  which  often  mars  the  generosity 
of  otherwise  liberal  souls,  who  insist  on  giving  what  they  wish 
rather  than  what  the  receiver  wants. 


1 6  AS   MUCH   GREATNESS   IN   GRATITUDE 

I  was  told  to  take  out  Bradshaw's  map,  and  go  exactly 
where  I  desired;  and,  oh  !  how  we  did  pore  over  the  various 
railway  lines,  but  at  last  chose  Dartmouth  for  a  destination, 
as  being  old  in  itself,  and  new  to  us,  and  really  a  "  long  way 
off."  We  were  neither  of  us  disappointed ;  we  lived  on  the 
quay,  and  watched  the  natives  living  in  boats  on  the  harbor, 
as  is  their  wont ;  and  we  drove  about  the  deep  Devon  lanes,  all 
nodding  with  foxgloves,  to  see  the  churches  with  finely  carved 
screens  that  abound  in  the  neighborhood,  our  driver  being  a 
more  than  middle-aged  woman,  with  shoes  down  at  heel, 
and  a  hat  on  her  head.  She  was  always  attended  by  a 
black  retriever,  whom  she  called  "Naro,"  and  whom  Julie 
sketched.  I  am  afraid,  as  years  went  on,  I  became  unscru- 
pulous about  accepting  her  presents,  on  the  score  that  she 
"  liked  "  to  give  them  !  —  and  I  only  tried  to  be,  at  any  rate, 
a  gracious  receiver. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  whom  Julie  found  less 
easy  to  deal  with,  and  that  was  a  relation,  whose  liberality 
even  exceeded  her  own.  When  Greek  met  Greek  over 
Christmas  presents,  then  came  the  tug  of  war  indeed  !  The 
Relation's  ingenuity  in  contriving  to  give  away  whatever 
plums  were  given  to  her  was  quite  amazing,  and  she  gen- 
erally managed  to  baffle  the  most  careful  restrictions  which 
were  laid  upon  her ;  but  Julie  conquered  at  last,  by  yielding 
—  as  often  happens  in  this  life. 

"  It 's  no  use,"  Julie  said  to  me,  as  she  got  out  her  bit  of 
cardboard  (not  for  a  needle-book  this  time)  ;  "  I  must  make 
her  happy  in  her  own  way.  She  wants  me  to  make  her  a 
sketch  for  somebody  else,  and  I  've  promised  to  do  it." 

The  sketch  was  made,  —  the  last  Julie  ever  drew,  —  but  it 
still  rests  among  the  receiver's  own  treasures.  She  was  so 
much  delighted  with  it,  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to 


AS   IN   GENEROSITY.  1 7 

give  it  away,  and  Julie  laughed  many  times  with  pleasure  as 
she  reflected  on  the  unexpected  success  that  had  crowned 
her  final  effort. 

I  spoke  of  "  Melchior's  Dream,"  and  must  revert  to  it  again, 
for  though  it  was  written  when  my  sister  was  only  nineteen,  I 
do  not  think  she  has  surpassed  it  in  any  of  her  later  domes- 
tic tales.  Some  of  the  writing  in  the  introduction  may  be 
rougher  and  less  finished  than  she  was  capable  of  in  after- 
years,  but  the  originality,  power,  and  pathos  of  the  Dream 
itself  are  beyond  doubt.  In  it,  too,  she  showed  the  talent 
which  gives  the  highest  value  to  all  her  work,  —  that  of  teach- 
ing deep  religious  lessons  without  disgusting  her  readers  by 
any  approach  to  cant  or  goody-goody  ism. 

During  the  years  1862  to  1868,  we  kept  up  a  MS.  maga- 
zine, and,  of  course,  Julie  was  our  principal  contributor. 
Many  of  her  poems  on  local  events  were  genuinely  witty, 
and  her  serial  tales  the  backbone  of  the  periodical.  The 
best  of  these  was  called  "  The  Two  Abbots :  a  Tale  of 
Second  Sight,"  and  in  the  course  of  it  she  introduced  a 
hymn,  which  was  afterwards  set  to  music  by  Major  Ewing, 
and  published  in  Boosey's  Royal  Edition  of  "  Sacred  Songs," 
under  the  title  "  From  Fleeting  Pleasures." 

While  speaking  of  her  hymns,  I  may  mention  that,  on 
several  occasions,  she  helped  us  by  writing  or  adapting 
hymns  to  be  sung  by  our  school-children  at  their  Whitsun- 
tide festal  services,  when  "  new  hymns  "  had  to  be  provided 
every  year.  Two  of  those  that  my  sister  wrote,  in  the  re- 
spective years  1864  and  1866,  shall  be  given  here,  as  they 
are  not  published  elsewhere,  and  I  think  other  children 
besides  our  Ecclesfield  ones  may  like  to  sing  them.  The 
first  was  written  to  the  tune  of  Hymn  50  in  the  present 
edition  of  "  Hymns,  Ancient  and  Modern." 


1 8  WHITSUNTIDE   HYMN. 


I. 

Come  down  !  come  down  !  O  Holy  Ghost ! 

As  once  of  old  Thou  didst  come  down, 
In  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost, 

The  apostolic  heads  to  crown. 

Come  down  !  though  now  no  flame  divine, 
Nor  heaven-sent  Dove  our  sight  amaze  ; 

Our  Church  still  shows  the  outward  sign 
Thou  truly  givest  inward  grace. 

Come  down  !  come  down !  on  infancy  ; 

The  babes  whom  Jesus  deigned  to  love. 
God  give  us  grace  by  faith  to  see, 

Above  the  font,  the  mystic  Dove. 

Come  down  !  come  down  !  on  kneeling  bands 
Of  those  who  fain  would  strength  receive  ; 

And  in  the  laying  on  of  hands 
Bless  us  beyond  what  we  believe. 

Come  down  !  not  only  on  the  saint, 
Oh,  struggle  with  the  hard  of  heart, 

With  wilful  sin  and  inborn  taint, 

Till  lust,  and  wrath,  and  pride  depart ! 

Come  down  !  come  down,  sweet  Comforter ! 

It  was  the  promise  of  the  Lord. 
Come  down  !  although  we  grieve  Thee  sore, 

Not  for  our  merits  — but  His  Word. 

Come  down  !  come  down  !  not  what  we  would 
But  what  we  need,  oh,  bring  with  Thee  ! 

Turn  life's  sore  riddle  to  our  good  ; 

A  little  while,  and  we  shall  see.     Amen. 


VINCIT  QUI  PATITUR.  1 9 

The  second  hymn  is  in  the  same  metre  as  "  The  Pilgrims 
of  the  Night,"  and  was  written  to  fit  the  flowery  tune  to 
which  the  latter  was  originally  attached. 

II. 

Long,  long  ago  with  vows  too  much  forgotten, 

The  cross  of  Christ  was  sealed  on  every  brow  ; 
Ah  !  slow  of  heart,  that  shun  the  Christian  conflict, 
Rise  up  at  last!     The  accepted  time  is  now. 
Soldiers  of  Jesus  !  Blest  who  endure  ; 
Stand  in  the  battle  !  the  victory  is  sure. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  Saviour's  voice  to  each  is  calling : 
"  I  bore  the  Cross  of  Death  in  pain  for  thee; 

On  thee  the  Cross  of  daily  life  is  falling : 

Children,  take  up  the  Cross  and  follow  Me  !  " 
Soldiers  of  Jesus  !     Blest  who  endure,  etc. 

Strive  as  God's  saints  have  striven  in  all  ages  ; 

Press  those  slow  steps  where  firmer  feet  have  trod : 
For  us  their  lives  adorn  the  sacred  pages, 

For  them  a  crown  of  glory  is  with  God. 
Soldiers  of  Jesus  !  Blest  who  endure,  etc. 

Peace  !  peace  !  sweet  voices  bring  an  ancient  story 

(Such  songs  angelic  melodies  employ), 
"  Hard  is  the  strife,  but  unconceived  the  glory : 

Short  is  the  pain,  eternal  is  the  joy," 

Soldiers  of  Jesus  !  Blest  who  endure,  etc. 

On,  Christian  souls  !  all  base  temptations  spurning, 

Drown  coward  thoughts  in  Faith's  triumphant  hymn, 
Since  Jesus  suffered,  our  salvation  earning, 
Shall  we  not  toil,  that  we  may  rest  with  Him  ? 
Soldiers  of  Jesus  !  Blest  who  endure, 
Stand  in  the  battle  !  the  victory  is  sure.     Amen. 


20  AUNT  JUDY. 

My  sister  published  very  few  of  the  things  which  she  wrote 
to  amuse  us  in  our  MS.  "  Gunpowder  Plot  Magazine,"  for 
they  chiefly  referred  to  local  and  family  events  ;  but  "  The 
Blue  Bells  on  the  Lea"  was  an  exception.  The  scene  of 
this  is  a  hill-side  near  our  old  home,  and  Mr.  Andre's  fan- 
tastic and  graceful  illustrations  to  the  verses  when  they  came 
out  as  a  book,  gave  her  full  satisfaction  and  delight. 

In  June,  1865,  she  contributed  a  short  parochial  tale, 
"  The  Yew  Lane  Ghosts,"  *  to  the  "  Monthly  Packet,"  and 
during  the  same  year  she  gave  a  somewhat  sensational  story, 
called  "  The  Mystery  of  the  Bloody  Hand,"  to  "  London 
Society."  Julie  found  no  real  satisfaction  in  writing  this  kind 
of  literature,  and  she  soon  discarded  it ;  but  her  first  attempt 
showed  some  promise  of  the  prolific  power  of  her  imagina- 
tion, for  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks,  who  read  the  tale  impartially, 
not  knowing  who  had  written  it,  wrote  the  following  criti- 
cism :  "  If  the  author  has  leisure  and  inclination  to  make  a 
picture  instead  of  a  sketch,  the  material,  judiciously  treated, 
would  make  a  novel,  and  I  especially  see  in  the  character 
and  sufferings  of  the  Quaker,  previous  to  his  crime,  matter 
for  effective  psychological  treatment.  The  contrast  between 
the  semi-insane  nature  and  that  of  the  hypocrite  might  be 
powerfully  worked  up  ;  but  these  are  mere  suggestions  from 
an  old  craftsman,  who  never  expects  younger  ones  to  see 
things  as  veterans  do." 

In  May,  1866,  my  mother  started  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine 
for  Children,"  and  she  called  it  by  this  title  because  "Aunt 
Judy  "  was  the  nickname  we  had  given  to  Julie  while  she 
was  yet  our  nursery  story-teller,  and  it  had  been  previously 
used  in  the  titles  of  two  of  my  mother's  most  popular  books, 
"Aunt  Judy's  Tales,"  and  "Aunt  Judy's  Letters." 
1  Melchior's  Dream,  and  other  Tales. 


VISITS   TO   GRENOSIDE.  21 

After  my  sister  grew  up,  and  began  to  publish  stories  of 
her  own,  many  mistakes  occurred  as  to  the  authorship  of 
these  books.  It  was  supposed  that  the  Tales  and  Letters 
were  really  written  by  Julie,  and  the  introductory  portions 
that  strung  them  together  by  my  mother.  This  was  a  com- 
plete mistake ;  the  only  bits  that  Julie  wrote  in  either  of  the 
books  were  three  brief  tales,  in  imitation  of  Andersen,  called 
"  The  Smut,"  "  The  Crick,"  and  "  The  Brothers,"  which  were 
included  in  "  The  Black  Bag  "  in  "  Aunt  Judy's  Letters." 

Julie's  first  contribution  to  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  "  was 
"  Mrs.  Overtheway's  Remembrances," 1  and  between  May, 
1866,  and  May,  1867,  the  first  three  portions  of  "Ida," 
"  Mrs.  Moss,"  and  "  The  Snoring  Ghosts  "  came  out.  In 
these  stories  I  can  trace  many  of  the  influences  which  sur- 
rounded my  sister  while  she  was  still  the  "always  cayling  Miss 
Julie,"  suffering  from  constant  attacks  of  quinsy,  and  in  the 
intervals  reviving  from  them  with  the  vivacity  of  Madam 
Liberality,  and  frequently  going  away  to  pay  visits  to  her 
friends  for  change  of  air. 

We  had  one  great  friend  to  whom  Julie  often  went,  as  she 
lived  within  a  mile  of  our  home,  but  on  a  perfectly  different 
soil  to  ours.  Ecclesfield  is  built  on  clay,  but  Grenoside,  the 
village  where  our  friend  lived,  is  on  sand,  and  much  higher 
in  altitude.  From  it  we  have  often  looked  down  at  Eccles- 
field lying  in  fog,  while  at  Grenoside  the  air  was  clear  and 
the  sun  shining.  Here  my  sister  loved  to  go,  and  from  the 
home  where  she  was  so  welcome  and  tenderly  cared  for, 
she  drew  (though  no  facts)  yet  much  of  the  coloring  which 
is  seen  in  Mrs.  Overtheway,  —  a  solitary  life  lived  in  the  fear 
of  God  ;  enjoyment  of  the  delights  of  a  garden  ;  with  tender 
treasuring  of  dainty  china  and  household  goods  for  the  sake 

1  Mrs.  Overtheway's  Remembrances,  and  other  Tales. 


22  GONE   INTO   THE  WORLD   OF   LIGHT. 

of  those  to  whom  such  relics  had  once  belonged.  Years 
after  our  friend  had  followed  her  loved  ones  to  their  better 
home,  and  had  bequeathed  her  egg-shell  brocade  to  my 
sister,  Julie  had  another  resting-place  in  Grenoside,  to  which 
she  was  as  warmly  welcomed  as  to  the  old  one,  during  days 
of  weakness  and  convalescence.  Here,  in  an  atmosphere 
of  cultivated  tastes  and  loving  appreciation,  she  spent  many 
happy  hours,  sketching  some  of  the  villagers  at  their  pictu- 
resque occupations  of  carpet-weaving  and  clog-making,  or 
amusing  herself  in  other  ways.  This  home,  too,  was  broken 
up  by  death,  but  Mrs.  Ewing  looked  back  to  it  with  great 
affection,  and  when,  at  the  beginning  of  her  last  illness, 
while  she  still  expected  to  recover,  she  was  planning  a  visit 
to  her  Yorkshire  home,  she  sighed  to  think  that  Grenoside 
was  no  longer  open  to  her. 

On  June  i,  1867,  my  sister  was  married  to  Alexander 
Ewing,  A.P.D.,  son  of  the  late  Alexander  Ewing,  M.D.,  of 
Aberdeen,  and  a  week  afterwards  they  sailed  for  Fredericton, 
New  Brunswick,  where  he  was  to  be  stationed. 

A  gap  now  occurred  in  the  continuation  of  "  Mrs.  Over- 
theway's  Remembrances."  The  first  contributions  that  Julie 
sent  from  her  new  home  were  "An  Idyl  of  the  Wood,"1 
and  "The  Three  Christmas  Trees."  In  these  tales  the  expe- 
riences of  her  voyage  and  fresh  surroundings  became  appar- 
ent;  but  in  June,  1868,  "Mrs.  Overtheway"  was  continued 
by  the  story  of  "  Reka  Dom." 

In  this  Julie  reverted  to  the  scenery  of  another  English 
home  where  she  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  during  her 
girlhood.  The  winter  of  1862-63  was  passed  by  her  at  Clyst 
St.  George,  near  Topsham,  with  the  family  of  her  kind  friend, 
Rev.  H.  T.  Ellacombe  ;  and  she  evolved  Mrs.  Overtheway's 
1  Reprinted  in  "  The  Brownies,  and  other  Tales." 


HOME  IN  THE  DEAR  OLD  CAMP.       23 

"  River  House  "  l  out  of  the  romance  roused  by  the  sight  of 
quaint  old  houses,  with  quainter  gardens,  and  strange  names 
that  seemed  to  show  traces  of  foreign  residents  in  days  gone 
by.  Reka  Dom  was  actually  the  name  of  a  house  in 
Topsham,  where  a  Russian  family  had  once  lived. 

For  the  descriptions  of  Father  and  Mother  Albatross  and 
their  island  home,  in  the  last  and  most  beautiful  tale  of  "  Ker- 
guelen's  Land,"  she  was  indebted  to  her  husband,  a  wide 
traveller  and  very  accurate  observer  of  nature. 

To  the  volume  of  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  "  for  1869  she 
only  sent  "The  Land  of  Lost  Toys,"  a  short  but  very  brilliant 
domestic  story,  the  wood  described  in  it  being  the  Upper 
Shroggs,  near  Ecclesfield,  which  had  been  a  very  favorite 
haunt  in  her  childhood.  In  October,  1869,  she  and  Major 
'Ewing  returned  to  England,  and  from  this  time  until  May, 
1877,  he  was  stationed  at  Aldershot. 

While  living  in  Fredericton  my  sister  formed  many  close 
friendships.  It  was  here  she  first  met  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Strangways.  In  the  society  of  Bishop  Medley  and  his  wife 
she  had  also  great  happiness,  and  with  the  former  she  and 
Major  Ewing  used  to  study  Hebrew.  The  cathedral  services 
were  a  never-failing  source  of  comfort,  and  at  these  her 
husband  frequently  played  the  organ,  especially  on  occasions 

1  On  the  evening  of  our  arrival  at  Fredericton,  New  Brunswick, 
which  stands  on  the  River  St.  John,  we  strolled  down  out  of  the  prin- 
cipal street,  and  wandered  on  the  river  shore.  We  stopped  to  rest 
opposite  to  a  large  old  house,  then  in  the  hands  of  workmen.  There 
was  only  the  road  between  this  house  and  the  river,  and  on  the  banks 
one  or  two  old  willows.  We  said  we  should  like  to  make  our  first 
home  in  some  such  spot.  Ere  many  weeks  were  over,  we  were  estab- 
lished in  that  very  house  where  we  spent  the  first  year,  or  more,  of 
our  time  in  Fredericton.  We  called  it  Reka  Dom,  the  River  House. 
—  A.  E. 


24  PET  ANIMALS. 

when  anthems,  which  he  had  written  at  the  bishop's  request, 
were  sung. 

To  the  volume  of  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  "  for  1870  she 
gave  "Amelia  and  the  Dwarfs,"  and  "Christmas  Crackers,"1 
"Benjy  in  Beastland," 2  and  eight  "Old-fashioned  Fairy 
Tales."  "  Amelia  "  is  one  of  her  happiest  combinations  of 
real  child-life  and  genuine  fairy  lore.  The  dwarfs  inspired 
Mr.  Cruikshank  to  one  of  his  best  water  color  sketches  :  who 
is  the  happy  possessor  thereof  I  do  not  know,  but  the  wood- 
cut illustration  very  inadequately  represents  the  beauty  and 
delicacy  of  the  picture. 

While  speaking  of  the  stories  in  this  volume  of  "Aunt 
Judy's  Magazine,"  I  must  stop  to  allude  to  one  of  the  strong- 
est  features  in  Julie's  character,  namely,  her  love  for  animals. 
She  threw  over  them,  as  over  everything  she  touched,  all 
the  warm  sympathy  of  her  loving  heart,  and  it  always  seemed 
to  me  as  if  this  enabled  her  almost  to  get  inside  the  mind  of 
her  pets,  and  know  how  to  describe  their  feelings. 

Another  beast  friend  whom  Julie  had  in  New  Brunswick 
was  the  bear  of  the  2 2d  Regiment,  and  she  drew  a  sketch 
of  him  "with  one  of  his  pet  black  dogs,  as  I  saw  them,  18th 
September,  1S68,  near  the  Officers'  Quarters,  Fredericton, 
N.  B.  The  bear  is  at  breakfast,  and  the  dog  occasionally 
licks  his  nose  when  it  comes  up  out  of  the  bucket." 

The  pink-nosed  bull-dog  in  "Amelia"  bears  a  strong  like- 
ness to  a  well-beloved  Hector  whom  she  took  charge  of 
in  Fredericton  while  his  master  had  gone  on  leave  to  be  mar- 
ried in  England.  Hector,  too,  was  "  a  snow-white  bull-dog 
(who  was  certainly  as  well-bred  and  as  amiable  as  any  living 
creature  in  the  kingdom),"  with  a  pink  nose  that  "  became 

1  Both  reprinted  in  "  The  Brownies,  and  other  Tales." 

2  Reprinted  in  "  Lob  Lie-by-the-Fire,  and  other  Tales." 


A   FAVORITE   DOG.  2$ 

crimson  with  increased  agitation."  He  was  absolutely  gen- 
tle with  human  beings,  but  a  hopeless  adept  at  fighting  with 
his  own  kind  ;  and  many  of  my  sister's  letters  and  note-books 
were  adorned  with  sketches  of  Hector  as  he  appeared  swollen 
about  the  head,  and  subdued  in  spirits,  after  some  desperate 
encounter  ;  or,  with  cards  spread  out  in  front  of  him  playing, 
as  she  delighted  to  make  him  do,  at  "  having  his  fortune 
told."  But,  instead  of  the  four  Queens  standing  for  four  ladies 
of  different  degrees  of  complexion,  they  represented  his  four 
favorite  dishes  of,  —  (i.)Welsh  rabbit ;  (2.)  Blueberry  pudding  ; 
(3.)  Pork  sausages;  (4.)  Buckwheat  pancakes  and  molasses; 
and  "  the  fortune  "  decided  which  of  these  dainties  he  was  to 
have  for  supper. 

Shortly  before  the  Ewings  started  from  Fredericton,  they 
went  into  the  barracks,  whence  a  battalion  of  some  regiment 
had  departed  two  days  before,  and  there  discovered  a  large 
black  retriever  who  had  been  left  behind.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  this  deserted  gentleman  entirely  overcame  their 
feelings ;  he  was  at  once  adopted,  named  Trouve,  and 
brought  home  to  England,  where  he  spent  a  very  happy  life, 
chiefly  in  the  South  Camp,  Aldershot,  his  one  danger  there 
being  that  he  was  such  a  favorite  with  the  soldiers  they  over- 
fed him  terribly.  Never  did  a  more  benevolent  disposition 
exist ;  his  broad  forehead  and  kind  eyes,  set  widely  apart, 
did  not  belie  him  ;  there  was  a  strong  strain  of  Newfound- 
land in  his  breed,  and  a  strong  likeness  to  a  bear  in  the  way 
his  feathered  paws  half  crossed  over  each  other  in  walking. 
Trouve  appears  as  Nox  in  "  Benjy,"  and  there  is  a 
glimpse  of  him  in  The  Sweep,  who  ended  his  days  as  a 
"  soldier's  dog  "  in  "  The  Story  of  a  Short  Life."  Trouv£ 
did,  in  reality,  end  his  days  at  Ecclesfield,  where  he  is  buried 
near    Rough,   the    broken-haired    bull- terrier,   who   is    the 


26  VARIOUS   STORIES. 

real  hero  in  "Benjy."  Among  the  various  animal  friends 
whom  Julie  had,  either  of  her  own  or  belonging  to  others, 
none  is  lovelier  than  the  golden- haired  collie,  Rufus,  who 
was  at  once  the  delight  and  distraction  of  the  last  year  of  her 
life  at  Taunton,  by  the  tricks  he  taught  himself  of  very  gently 
extracting  the  pins  from  her  hair,  and  letting  it  down  at  in- 
convenient moments  ;  and  of  extracting,  with  equal  gentle- 
ness, from  the  earth  the  labels  that  she  had  put  to  the  various 
treasured  flowers  in  her  "  Little  Garden,"  and  then  tossing 
them  in  mid-air  on  the  grass-plot. 

A  very  amusing  domestic  story  by  my  sister,  called  "  The 
Snap  Dragons  "  came  out  in  the  Christmas  number  of  the 
"Monthly  Packet"  for  1870,  and  it  has  not  yet  been  pub- 
lished separately. 

"  Timothy's  Shoes  "  *  appeared  in  "  Aunt  Judy's  "  volume  for 
1 87 1.  This  was  another  story  of  the  same  type  as  "  Amelia," 
and  it  was  also  illustrated  by  Mr.  Cruikshank.  I  think  the 
Marsh  Julie  had  in  her  mind's  eye,  with  a  "  long  and  steep 
bank,"  is  one  near  the  canal  at  Aldershot,  where  she  herself 
used  to  enjoy  hunting  for  kingcups,  bog-asphodel,  sundew, 
and  the  like.  The  tale  is  a  charming  combination  of  humor 
and  pathos,  and  the  last  clause,  where  "  the  shoes  go  home," 
is  enough  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  every  one  who  loves 
the  patter  of  childish  feet. 

The  most  important  work  that  she  did  this  year  (1871) 
was  "A  Flat-iron  for  a  Farthing,"  which  ran  as  a  serial 
through  the  volume  of  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine."  It  was  very 
beautifully  illustrated  by  Helen  Paterson  (now  Mrs.  Allingham), 
and  the  design  where  the  "  little  ladies,"  in  big  beaver  bon- 
nets, are  seated  at  a  shop-counter  buying  flat-irons,  was  af- 
terwards reproduced  in  water-colors  by  Mrs.  Allingham,  and 
1  Reprinted  in  "  Lob  Lie-by-the-Fire,  and  other  Tales." 


THE   LITTLE   LADIES.  2"] 

exhibited  at  the  Royal  Society  of  Painters  in  Water-colors 
(1875),  where  it  attracted  Mr.  Ruskin's  attention.1  Eventu- 
ally, a  fine  steel  engraving  was  done  from  it  by  Mr.  Stodart. 
It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  girl  friend  who  sat  as  a 
model  for  Polly  to  Mrs.  Allingham  is  now  herself  a  well- 
known  artist,  whose  pictures  are  hung  in  the  Royal  Academy. 

The  scene  of  the  little  girls  in  beaver  bonnets  was  really 
taken  from  an  incident  of  Julie's  childhood,  when  she  and 
her  "  duplicate  "  (my  eldest  sister)  being  the  nearest  in  age, 
size,  and  appearance,  of  any  of  the  family,  used  to  be  dressed 
exactly  alike,  and  were  inseparable  companions  :  their  flat- 
irons,  I  think,  were  bought  in  Matlock.  Shadowy  glimpses 
of  this  same  "  duplicate  "  are  also  to  be  caught  in  Mrs. 
Overtheway's  Fatima,  and  Madam  Liberality's  Darling. 
When  "  A  Flat-Iron  "  came  out  in  its  book  form  it  was  dedi- 
cated "  To  my  dear  Father,  and  to  his  sister,  my  dear  Aunt 
Mary,  in  memory  of  their  good  friend  and  nurse,  E.  B.,  obi  it 
3  March,  1872,  set.  83  ;  "  the  loyal  devotion  and  high  integ- 
rity of  Nurse  Bundle  having  been  somewhat  drawn  from  the 
"  E.  B."  alluded  to.  Such  characters  are  not  common,  and 
they  grow  rarer  year  by  year.  We  do  well  to  hold  them  in 
everlasting  remembrance. 

1  The  drawing,  with  whatever  temporary  purpose  executed,  is  for- 
ever lovely  ;  a  thing  which  I  believe  Gainsborough  would  have  given 
one  of  his  own  pictures  for,  —  old-fashioned  as  red-tipped  daisies  are, 
and  more  precious  than  rubies.  —  Ruskin's  Notes  on  some  of  the 
Pictures  at  the  Royal  Academy.     1875. 


PART   II. 

The  meadows  gleam  with  hoarfrost  white  ; 

The  day  breaks  on  the  hill  ; 
The  widgeon  takes  its  early  flight 

Beside  the  frozen  rill. 
From  village  steeples  far  away 

The  sound  of  bells  is  borne, 
As  one  by  one  each  crimson  ray 

Brings  in  the  Christmas  morn. 
Peace  to  all !   the  church  bells  say, 
For  Christ  was  born  on  Christmas  day. 
Peace  to  all  ! 

Here  some  will  those  again  embrace 

They  hold  on  earth  most  dear ; 
There  some  will  mourn  an  absent  face 

They  lost  within  the  year. 
Yet  peace  to  all  who  smile  or  weep 

Is  rung  from  earth  to  sky ; 
But  most  to  those  to-day  who  keep 

The  feast  with  Christ  on  high. 
Peace  to  all  !   the  church  bells  say, 
For  Christ  was  born  on  Christmas  day. 
Peace  to  all ! 

R.  A.  Gatty,   1873. 

ftURING  187 1  my  sister  published  the  first  of  her 
"Verses  for  Children,"  —  "The  Little  Master  to 
his  Big  Dog ; "  she  did  not  put  her  name  to  it  in 
"  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine,"  but  afterwards  included  it  in  one  of 
her  shilling  Verse  Books.  Two  series  of  these  books,  con- 
sisting of  six  volumes  each,  have  now  been  published,  and  a 
third  series  is  in  the  press,  which  will  be  called  "  Poems  of 


A-MUMMING   WE   WILL   GO  !  29 


Child  Life  and  Country  Life  ; "  though  Julie  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  making  up  her  mind  to  use  the  term  "  poem,"  be- 
cause she  did  not  think  her  irregular  verses  were  worthy  to 
bear  the  title. 

She  saw  Mr.  Andre's  original  sketches  for  five  of  the  last 
six  volumes,  and  liked  the  illustrations  to  "  The  Poet  and  the 
Brook,"  "  Convalescence,"  and  "The  Mill  Stream  "  best. 

To  the  volume  of  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine"  for  1872  she 
gave  her  first  "  soldier "  story,  "  The  Peace  Egg,"  and*  in 
this  she  began  to  sing  those  praises  of  military  life  and 
courtesies  which  she  afterwards  more  fully  showed  forth  in 
"Jackanapes,"  "The  Story  of  a  Short  Life,"  and  the  opening 
chapters  of  "  Six  to  Sixteen."  The  chief  incident  of  the 
story,  however,  consisted  in  the  Captain's  children  uncon- 
sciously bringing  peace  and  good-will  into  the  family  by  per~ 
forming  the  old  Christmas  play  or  Mystery  of  "  The  Peace 
Egg."  This  play  we  had  been  accustomed  to  see  acted  in 
Yorkshire,  and  to  act  ourselves  when  we  were  young.  I 
recollect  how  proud  we  were  on  one  occasion,  when  our  dis- 
guises were  so  complete,  that  a  neighboring  farmer's  wife,  at 
whose  door  we  went  to  act,  drove  us  as  ignominiously  away, 
as  the  Housekeeper  did  the  children  in  the  story.  Darkie, 
who  "  slipped  in  last  like  a  black  shadow,"  and  Pax,  who 
jumped  on  to  Mamma's  lap,  "  where,  sitting  facing  the  com- 
pany, he  opened  his  black  mouth  and  yawned,  with  ludi- 
crous inappropriateness,"  are  life-like  portraits  of  two  favorite 
dogs. 

The  tale  was  a  very  popular  one,  and  many  children  wrote 
to  ask  where  they  could  buy  copies  of  the  play  in  order  to 
act  it  themselves.  These  inquiries  led  Julie  to  compile  a 
fresh  arrangement  of  it,  for  she  knew  that  in  its  original  form 
it  was  rather  too  roughly  worded  to  be  fit  for  nursery  use ; 


30  LIVE   FOR  A   CENTURY, 

so  in  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine"  (January,  1884)  she  published 
an  adaptation  of  "  The  Peace  Egg,  a  Christmas  Mumming 
Play,"  together  with  some  interesting  information  about 
the  various  versions  of  it  which  exist  in  different  parts  o* 
England. 

She  contributed  "  Six  to  Sixteen  "  as  a  serial  to  the  Maga- 
zine in  1872,  and  it  was  illustrated  by  Mrs.  Allingham.    When 
it  was  published  as  a  book,  the  dedication  to  Miss  Eleanor 
Lloyd  told  that  many  of  the  theories  on  the  up-bringing  of 
girls,  which  the  story  contained,  were  the  result  of  the  some- 
what desultory,  if  intellectual,  home  education  which  we  had 
received  from  our  mother.     This  education  Miss  Lloyd  had, 
to  a  great  extent,  shared  during  the  happy  visits  she  paid 
us ;  when  she  entered  into  our  interests  with  the  zest  of  a 
sister,  and  in  more  than  one  point  outstripped  us  in  follow- 
ing the  pursuits  for  which  mother  gave  us  a   taste.     Julie 
never  really  either  went  to  school  or  had  a  governess,  though 
for  a  brief  period  she  was  under  the  kind  care  of  some  ladies 
at  Brighton,  but  they  were  relations,  and  she  went  to  them 
more  for  the  benefit  of  sea  breezes  than  lessons.     She  cer- 
tainly chiefly  educated  herself  by  the  "thorough"  way  in 
which  she  pursued  the  various  tastes  she  had  inherited,  and 
into  which  she  was  guided  by  our  mother.     Then  she  never 
thought  she  had  learned  enough,  but  throughout  her  whole 
life  was  constantly  improving  and  adding  to  her  knowledge. 
She  owed  to  mother's  teaching  the  first  principles  of  drawing, 
and  I  have  often  seen  her  refer  for  rules  on  perspective  to 
"  My  Childhood  in  Art,"  a  story  in  which  these  rules  were 
fully  laid  down ;  but  mother  had  no  eye  for  color,  and  not 
much  for  figure  drawing.     Her  own  best  works  were  etchings 
on  copper  of  trees  and  landscapes,  whereas  Julie's  artistic 
talent  lay  more  in  colors  and  human  forms.     The  only  real 


BUT   EVER   BE   LEARNING.  3 1 

lessons  in  sketching  she  ever  had  were  a  few  from  Mr.  Paul 
Naftel,  years  after  she  was  married. 

One  of  her  favorite  methods  for  practising  drawing  was 
to  devote  herself  to  thoroughly  studying  the  sketches  of  some 
one  master,  in  order  to  try  and  unravel  the  special  principles 
on  which  he  had  worked,  and  then  to  copy  his  drawings. 
She  pursued  this  plan  with  some  of  Chinnery's  curious  and 
effective  water-color  sketches,  which  were  lent  to  her  by 
friends,  and  she  found  it  a  very  useful  one.  She  made  cop- 
ies from  De  Wint,  Turner,  and  others,  in  the  same  way,  and 
certainly  the  labor  she  threw  into  her  work  enabled  her  to 
produce  almost  fac-similes  of  the  originals.  She  was  greatly 
interested  one  day  by  hearing  a  lady,  who  ranks  as  the  best 
living  English  writer  of  her  sex,  say  that  when  she  was  young 
she  had  practised  the  art  of  writing,  in  just  the  same  way  that 
Julie  pursued  that  of  drawing,  namely,  by  devoting  herself 
to  reading  the  works  of  one  writer  at  a  time,  until  her  brain 
was  so  saturated  with  his  style  that  she  could  write  exactly 
like  him,  and  then  passing  on  to  an  equally  careful  study  of 
some  other  author. 

The  life-like  details  of  the  "  cholera  season,"  in  the  second 
chapter  of  "  Six  to  Sixteen,"  were  drawn  from  facts  that 
Major  Ewing  told  his  wife  of  a  similar  season  which  he  had 
passed  through  in  China,  and  during  which  he  had  lost  several 
friends  ;  but  the  touching  episode  of  Margery's  birthday  pres- 
ent, and  Mr.  Abercrombie's  efforts  to  console  her,  were 
purely  imaginary. 

Several  of  the  "  Old-fashioned  Fairy  Tales  "  which  Julie 
wrote  during  this  (1872)  and  previous  years  in  "Aunt  Judy's 
Magazine  "  were  on  Scotch  topics,  and  she  owed  the  striking 
accuracy  of  her  local  coloring  and  dialect,  as  well  as  her 
keen  intuition  of  Scotch  character,  to  visits  that  she  paid  to 


32  A   STORY   OF  THE   PLAINS. 

Major  Ewing's  relatives  in  the  North,  and  also  to  reading 
such  typical  books  as  "  Mansie  Wauch,  the  Tailor  of  Dal- 
keith," a  story  which  she  greatly  admired.  She  liked  to  study 
national  types  of  character,  and  when  she  wrote  "  We  and 
the  World,"  one  of  its  chief  features  was  meant  to  be  the 
contrast  drawn  between  the  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish  heroes  ; 
thanks  to  her  wide  sympathy  she  was  as  keenly  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  rugged  virtues  of  the  dour  Scotch  race,  as  the 
more  quick  and  graceful  beauties  of  the  Irish  mind. 

The  Autumn  Military  Manoeuvres  in  1872  were  held  near 
Salisbury  Plain,  and  Major  Evving  was  so  much  fascinated  by 
the  quaint  old  town  of  Amesbury,  where  he  was  quartered, 
that  he  took  my  sister  afterwards  to  visit  the  place.  The 
result  of  this  was  that  her  "  Miller's  Thumb  "  came  out  as  a 
serial  in  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine"  during  1873.  All  the  scen- 
ery is  drawn  from  the  neighborhood  of  Amesbury,  and  the 
Wiltshire  dialect  she  acquired  by  the  aid  of  a  friend,  who 
procured  copies  for  her  of  "  Wiltshire  Tales  "  and  "  A  Glos- 
sary of  Wiltshire  Words  and  Phrases,"  both  by  J.  Y.  Aker- 
man,  F.  S.  A.  She  gleaned  her  practical  knowledge  of  life 
in  a  windmill,  and  a  "  Miller's  Thumb,"  from  an  old  man 
who  used  to  visit  her  hut  in  the  South  Camp,  Aldershot, 
having  fallen  from  being  a  Miller  with  a  genuine  Thumb  to 
the  less  exalted  position  of  hawking  muffins  in  winter  and 
"  Sally  Lunns  "  in  summer  !  Mrs.  Allingham  illustrated  the 
story ;  two  of  her  best  designs  were  Jan  and  his  Nurse 
Boy  sitting  on  the  plain  watching  the  crows  fly,  and  Jan's 
first  effort  at  drawing  on  his  slate.  It  was  published  as  a 
book  in  1876,  and  dedicated  to  our  eldest  sister,  and  the 
title  was  then  altered  to  "Jan  of  the  Windmill,  a  Story  of  the 
Plains." 

Three  poems  of  Julie's  came  out  in  the  volume  of  "  Aunt 


MORS  JANUA  VIT/E.  33 

Judy's  Magazine  "  for  1873,  "The  Willow  Man,"  "  Ran  away 
to  Sea,"  and  "A  Friend  in  the  Garden ;  "  her  name  was  not 
given  to  the  last,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  little  rhyme  about  a  toad. 
*  She  also  wrote  during  this  year  "  Among  the  Merrows,  "  a 
fantastic  account  of  a  visit  she  paid  to  the  Aquarium  at  the 
Crystal  Palace. 

In  October,  1873,  our  mother  died,  and  my  sister  contrib- 
uted a  short  memoir  of  her  to  the  November  number  of 
"Aunt  Judy's  Magazine."  To  the  December  number  she 
gave  "  Madam  Liberality."  * 

For  two  years  after  mother's  death  Julie  shared  the  work 
of  editing  the  Magazine  with  me,  and  then  she  gave  it  up, 
as  we  were  not  living  together,  and  so  found  the  plan  rather 
inconvenient ;  also  the  task  of  reading  manuscripts  and  writing 
business  letters  wasted  time  which  she  could  spend  better 
•Dii  her  own  stories. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  1873  she  brought  out  a  book,  "  Lob 
Lie-by-the-Fire,  and  other  Tales,"  consisting  of  five  stories, 
three  of  which  —  "  Timothy's  Shoes,"  "  Benjy  in  Beastland," 
and  "  The  Peace  Egg  "  —  had  already  been  published  in 
"Aunt  Judy's  Magazine,"  while  "  Old  Father  Christmas  "  had 
appeared  in  "  Little  Folks  ;  "  but  the  first  tale  of  "  Lob  "  was 
specially  written  for  the  volume. 

The  character  of  McAlister  in  this  story  is  a  Scotchman  of 
the  Scotch,  an  uncle  of  Major  Ewing,  who  always  showed  a 
most  kind  and  helpful  interest  in  my  sister's  literary  work. 

He  died  a  few  weeks  before  she  did,  much  to  her  sorrow. 
The  incident  which  makes  the  tale  specially  appropriate  to 
so  true  and  unobtrusive  a  philanthropist  as  Mr.  McCombie 
was,  is  the  Highlander's  burning  anxiety  to  rescue  John 
Broom  from  his  vagrant  career. 

1  Reprinted  in  "  A  Great  Emergency,  and  other  Tales." 

3 


34  LARGE  HUMAN  SYMPATHIES. 

"  Lob  "  contains  some  of  Julie's  brightest  flashes  of  humor, 
and  ends  happily,  but  in  it,  as  in  many  of  her  tales,  "  the 
dusky  strand  of  death  "  appears,  inwoven  with,  and  thereby 
heightening,  the  joys  of  love  and  life.  It  is  a  curious  fact* 
that,  though  her  power  of  describing  death-bed  scenes  was 
60  vivid,  I  believe  she  never  saw  any  one  die ;  and  I  will 
venture  to  say  that  her  description  of  McAlister's  last  hours 
surpasses  in  truth  and  power  the  end  of  Leonard's  "  Short 
Life ;  "  the  extinction  of  the  line  of  "  Old  Standards  "  in 
Daddy  Darwin  ;  the  unseen  call  that  led  Jan's  Schoolmaster 
away ;  and  will  even  bear  comparison  with  Jackanapes'  de- 
parture through  the  grave  to  that- "  other  side  "  where  "  the 
Trumpets  sounded  for  him." 

Death-beds  are  not  the  only  things  which  Julie  had  the 
power  of  picturing  out  of  her  inner  consciousness  apart  from 
actual  experience.  She  was  much  amused  by  the  pertinacity 
with  which  unknown  correspondents  occasionally  inquired 
after  her  "  little  ones,"  unable  to  give  her  the  credit  of  de- 
scribing and  understanding  children  unless  she  possessed 
some  of  her  own.  There  is  a  graceful  touch  at  the  end  of 
"  Lob,"  which  seems  to  me  one  of  the  most  delicate  evi- 
dences of  her  universal  sympathy  with  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men  —  and  women  !  It  is  similar  in  character  to  the 
passage  I  alluded  to  in  "Timothy's  Shoes,"  where  they 
clatter  away  for  the  last  time,  into  silence. 

"  Even  after  the  sobering  influences  of  middle  age  had  touched 
him,  and  a  wife  and  children  bound  him  with  the  quiet  ties  of 
home,  he  had  (at  long  intervals)  his  '  restless  times,'  when  his 
good  '  missis  '  would  bring  out  a  little  store  laid  by  in  one  of 
the  children's  socks,  and  would  bid  him  'Be  off,  and  get  a 
breath  of  the  sea  air,'  but  on  condition  that  the  sock  went  with 
him  as  his  purse.     John  Broom  always  looked  ashamed  to  go, 


LITERARY   LABORS.  35 

but  he  came  back  the  better,  and  his  wife  was  quite  easy  in  his 
absence  with  that  confidence  in  her  knowledge  of  '  the  master,' 
which  is  so  mysterious  to  the  unmarried. 

"'The  sock '11  bring  him  home,'  said  Mrs.  Broom,  and  home 
he  came,  and  never  could  say  what  he  had  been  doing." 

In  1874  Julie  wrote  "A  Great  Emergency  "  x  as  a  serial 
for  the  Magazine  and  took  great  pains  to  corroborate  the 
accuracy  of  her  descriptions  of  barge  life  for  it.  I  remember 
our  inspecting  a  barge  on  the  canal  at  Aldershot,  with  a 
friend  who  understood  all  its  details,  and  we  arranged  to  go 
on  an  expedition  in  it  to  gain  further  experience,  but  were 
somehow  prevented.  The  allusions  to  Dartmouth  arose  from 
our  visit  there,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  and  which 
took  place  while  she  was  writing  the  tale ;  and  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  intricacies  of  the  Great  Eastern  Railway  between 
Fenchurch  Street  Station  and  North  Woolwich  came  from 
the  experience  she  gained  when  we  went  on  expeditions  to 
Victoria  Docks,  where  one  of  our  brothers  was  doing  paro- 
chial work  under  Canon  Boyd. 

During  1S74  five  of  her  "Verses  for  Children"  came  out 
in  the  Magazine,  two  of  which,  "Our  Garden,"  and  "Three 
Little  Nest-Birds,"  were  written  to  fit  old  German  woodcuts. 
These  two,  and  "  The  Doll's  Wash,"  and  "The  Blue  Bells  on 
the  Lea,"  have  since  been  republished.  "The  Doll's  Lul- 
laby "  has  not  yet  reappeared.  She  wrote  an  article  on 
"May-Day,  Old  Style  and  New  Style,"  in  1874,  and  also 
contributed  fifty-two  brief  "  Tales  of  the  Khoja,"  which  she 
adapted  from  the  Turkish  by  the  aid  of  a  literal  translation  of 
them  given  in  Barker's  "  Reading- Book  of  the  Turkish  Lan- 

1  "  A  Great  Emergency,  and  other  Tales." 


36  WHICH   IS   WHICH? 

guage,"  and  by  the  help  of  Major  Ewing,  who  possessed 
some  knowledge  of  the  Turkish  language  and  customs,  and 
assisted  her  in  polishing  the  stories.  They  are  thoroughly 
Eastern  in  character,  and  full  of  dry  wit. 

I  must  here  digress  to  speak  of  some  other  work  that  my 
sister  did  during  the  time  she  lived  in  Aldershot.  Both  she 
and  Major  Ewing  took  great  interest  in  the  amateur  concerts 
and  private  musical  performances  that  took  place  in  the 
camp,  and  the  V.  C.  in  "  The  Story  of  a  Short  Life,"  with  a 
fine  tenor  voice,  and  a  "  fastidious  choice  in  the  words  of  the 
songs  he  sang,"  is  a  shadow  of  these  past  days.  The  want 
that  many  composers  felt  of  good  words  for  setting  to  music, 
led  Julie  to  try  to  write  some,  and  eventually,  in  1874,  a  book 
of  "Songs  for  Music,  by  Four  Friends,"  was  published;  the 
contents  were  written  by  my  sister  and  two  of  her  brothers, 
and  the  Rev.  G.  J.  Chester.  This  book  became  a  standing 
joke  among  them,  because  one  of  the  reviewers  said  it  con- 
tained "  songs  by  four  writers,  one  of  whom  was  a  poet,"  and 
he  did  not  specify  the  one  by  name.  Whatever  his  opinion 
may  have  been,  there  are  two  "poems  "  of  my  sister's  in  the 
volume  which  deserve  to  be  noticed  here  ;  they  are  very  dif- 
ferent in  type,  one  of  them  was  written  to  suit  a  sweet  singer 
with  a  tenor  voice,  and  the  other  a  powerful  and  effective 
baritone.  The  former  was  gracefully  set  to  music  by  my 
brother  Alfred  Scott  Gatty,  and  spoiled  by  his  publisher,  who 
insisted  on  "  adapting  "  it  to  his  own  ideas  of  the  public 
taste.  The  latter  was  set  too  well  by  Mr.  J.  F.  Duggan  to 
have  any  chance  of  becoming  "  popular,"  if  the  publisher's 
gauge  of  taste  was  a  true  one. 


FOR   LOVE   OF   LONG   AGO.  37 


HOW   MANY   YEARS   AGO? 

How  many  years  ago,  love, 

Since  you  came  courting  me? 

Through  oak-tree  wood  and  o'er  the  lea, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  waistcoat  gay, 

And  mostly  not  a  word  to  say,  — 

How  many  years  ago,  love, 

How  many  years  ago  ? 

How  many  years  ago,  love, 
Since  you  to  father  spoke? 
Between  your  lips  a  sprig  of  oak  : 
You  were  not  one  with  much  to  say, 
But  mother  spoke  for  you  that  day,  — 
How  many  years  ago,  love, 
How  many  years  ago  ? 

So  many  years  ago,  love, 

That  soon  our  time  must  come 

To  leave  our  girl  without  a  home. 

She  's  like  her  mother,  love,  you  've  said  : 

At  her  age  I  had  long  been  wed,  — 

How  many  years  ago,  love, 

How  many  years  ago  ? 

For  love  of  long  ago,  love, 

If  John  has  aught  to  say. 

When  he  comes  up  to  us  to-day 

(A  likely  lad,  though  short  of  tongue), 

Remember,  husband,  we  were  young,  — 

How  many  years  ago,  love, 

How  many  years  ago  ? 


38  THE  MAN  IN  GRAY. 

THE  ELLEREE.1 

A  SONG  OF  SECOND    SIGHT. 

Elleree  !     O  Elleree  ! 
Seeing  what  none  else  may  see, 
Dost  thou  see  the  man  in  gray  ? 
Dost  thou  hear  the  night  hounds  bay  ? 

Elleree  !     O  Elleree  ! 
Seventh  son  of  seventh  son, 
All  thy  thread  of  life  is  spun, 
Thy  little  race  is  nearly  run, 

And  death  awaits  for  thee. 

Elleree  !     O  Elleree  ! 
Coronach  shall  wail  for  thee  ; 
Get  thee  shrived  and  get  thee  blest, 
Get  thee  ready  for  thy  rest, 

Elleree  !     O  Elleree  ! 
That  thou  owest  quickly  give, 
What  thou  ownest  thou  must  leave, 
And  those  thou  lovest  best  shall  grieve, 

But  all  in  vain  for  thee. 

"  Bodach  Glas  !  "  2  the  chieftain  said, 
"  All  my  debts  but  one  are  paid, 
All  I  love  have  long  been  dead, 
All  my  hopes  on  Heaven  are  stayed, 

Death  to  me  can  bring  no  dole  ;  " 
Thus  the  Elleree  replied  ; 
But  with  the  ebbing  of  the  tide 
As  sinks  the  setting  sun  he  died ; 

May  Christ  receive  his  soul ! 

1  "  Elleree  "  is  the  name  of  one  who  has  the  gift  of  second-sight. 

2  "  Bodach  Glas,"  the  Man  in  Gray,  appears  to  a  Highland  family 
with  the  gift  of  second-sight,  presaging  death. 


THEORY   OF   FAIRY   LITERATURE.  39 

During  1875  Julie  was  again  aided  by  her  husband  in  the 
work  that  she  did  for  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine."  "  Cousin 
Peregrine's  three  Wonder  Stories  " —  (1)  "  The  Chinese  Jug- 
glers and  the  Englishman's  Hand  ;  "  (2)  "The  Waves  of  the 
Great  South  Sea  ;  "  and  (3)  "  Jack  of  Pera  "  —  were  a  combi- 
nation of  his  facts  and  her  wording.  She  added  only  one 
more  to  her  "  Old-fashioned  Fairy  Tales,"  "  Good  Luck  is 
Better  than  Gold,"  but  it  is  one  of  her  most  finished  bits  of 
art,  and  she  placed  it  first,  when  the  tales  came  out  in  a  vol- 
ume. The  Preface  to  this  book  is  well  worth  the  study  of 
those  who  are  interested  in  the  composition  of  Fairy  litera- 
ture. Julie  began  by  explaining  that  though  the  title  of  the 
book  might  lead  people  to  think  it  consisted  of "  old  fairy 
tales  told  afresh,"  yet  they  were  all  new,  "  except  for  the  use 
of  common  '  properties  '  of  Fairy  Drama,  .  .  .  and  were 
written  in  conformity  to  certain  theories  respecting  stories  of 
this  kind:  "  — 

"  First,  that  there  are  ideas  and  types,  occurring  in  the  myths 
of  all  countries,  which  are  common  properties,  to  use  which  does 
not  lay  the  teller  of  fairy  tales  open  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism. 
Such  as  the  idea  of  the  weak  outwitting  the  strong  ;  the  failure 
of  man  to  choose  wisely  when  he  may  have  his  wish  ;  or  the 
desire  of  sprites  to  exchange  their  careless  and  unfettered  exist- 
ence for  the  pains  and  penalties  of  humanity,  if  they  may  thereby 
share  in  the  hopes  of  the  human  soul. 

"Secondly,  that  in  these  household  stories  (the  models  for 
which  were  originally  oral  tradition),  the  thing  to  be  most 
avoided  is  a  discursive  or  descriptive  style  of  writing.  Brevity 
and  epigram  must  ever  be  the  soul  of  their  wit,  and  they  should 
be  written  as  tales  that  are  told." 

After  this  Julie  touched  on  some  of  the  reasons  for  which 
grown-up  readers  occasionally  object  to  tales  of  the  imagination 


40  VIVID   DELINEATIONS. 

as  food  for  young  minds,  and  very  ably  proved  that  "  fairy 
tales  have  positive  uses  in  education,  which  no  cramming 
of  facts  and  no  merely  domestic  fiction  can  serve ;  "  but 
her  defence  is  too  long  to  be  quoted  here. 

She  also  wrote  (in  1875)  an  article  on  "Little  Woods," 
and  a  domestic  story  called  "  A  very  Ill-tempered  Family." 1 

This  is  most  powerfully  written,  and  has  been  ardently 
admired  by  many  people  who  found  help  from  the  lessons 
it  taught ;  for  my  own  part,  I  prefer  the  tales  in  which  Julie 
left  her  lessons  to  be  inferred,  rather  than  those  where  she 
laid  them  down  in  anything  approaching  to  a  didactic  fashion. 
I  think,  too,  that  the  very  vividness  of  the  children  she  drew 
made  me  feel  about  them  what  is  said  of  the  little  girl  in 
the  nursery  rhyme,  that  "when  she  was  nice  she  was  very, 
very  nice,  but  when  she  was  nasty  she  was  horrid.1''  Julie's 
"horrid"  children  give  me  real  pain  to  read  about,  and  I 
know  I  shrink  for  this  reason  from  "A  Sweet  Little  Dear," 
in  spite  of  the  caustic  fun  of  the  verses,  and  also  from  Selina 
in  "  A  Bad  Habit ; "  but  this,  of  course,  is  a  matter  of 
personal  taste  only. 

The  incident  of  Isobel's  reciting  the  Te  Deum  is  a  touch- 
ing one,  because  the  habit  of  repeating  it  by  heart,  especially 
in  bed  at  night,  was  one  which  Julie  herself  had  practised 
from  the  days  of  childhood,  when,  I  believe,  it  was  used  to 
drive  away  the  terrors  of  darkness.  The  last  day  on  which 
she  expressed  any  expectation  of  recovering  from  her  final 
illness  was  one  on  which  she  said,  "  I  think  I  must  be  getting 
better,  for  I  've  repeated  the  Te  Deum  all  through,  and  since 
I  've  been  ill  I  've  only  been  able  to  say  a  few  sentences  at 
once."  This  was  certainly  the  last  time  that  she  recited  the 
great  hymn  of  praise  before  she  joined  the  throng  of  those 
1  Reprinted  in  "A  Great  Emergency,  and  other  Tales." 


"TOOTS    AND    BOOTS."  41 

who  sing  it  day  and  night  before  the  throne  of  God.  The 
German  print  of  the  Crucifixion,  on  which  Isobel  saw  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  fall,  is  one  which  has  hung  over  my 
sister's  drawing-room  fireplace  in  every  home  of  wood  or 
stone  which  she  has  had  for  many  years  past. 

The  Child  Verse,  "A  Hero  to  his  Hobby-horse,"  came 
out  in  the  Magazine  volume  for  1875,  and,  like  many  of  the 
other  verses,  it  was  written  to  fit  a  picture. 

One  of  the  happiest  inspirations  from  pictures,  however, 
appeared  in  the  following  volume  (1876),  the  story  of  "Toots 
and  Boots,"  1  but  though  the  picture  of  the  ideal  Toots  was 
cast  like  a  shadow  before  him,  the  actual  Toots,  name  and 
all  complete,  had  a  real  existence,  and  his  word-portrait  was 
taken  from  life.  He  belonged  to  the  mess  of  the  Royal 
Engineers  in  the  South  Camp,  Aldershot,  and  was  as  digni- 
fied as  if  he  held  the  office  of  President.  I  shall  never  for- 
get one  occasion  on  which  he  was  invited  to  luncheon  at 
Mrs.  Ewing's  hut,  that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  making 
his* acquaintance ;  he  had  to  be  unwillingly  carried  across  the 
lines  in  the  arms  of  an  obliging  subaltern,  but  directly  he 
arrived,  without  waiting  for  the  first  course  even,  he  strug- 
gled out  of  the  officer's  embrace  and  galloped  back  to  his 
own  mess-table,  tail  erect  and  thick  with  rage  at  the  indignity 
he  had  undergone. 

"  Father  Hedgehog  and  his  Friends,"  ~  in  this  same  vol- 
ume (1876),  was  also  written  to  some  excellent  German 
woodcuts ;  and  it,  too,  is  a  wonderfully  brilliant  sketch  of 
animal  life  ;  perhaps  the  human  beings  in  the  tale  are  scarcely 
done  justice  to.    We  feel  as  if  Sybil  and  Basil,  and  the  Gypsy 

1  Reprinted  in  "  Brothers  of  Pity,  and  other  Tales  of  Beasts  and 
Men." 

2  Ibid. 


42  EXPERIENTIA    DOCET. 

Mother  and  Christian  had  scarcely  room  to  breathe  in  the 
few  pages  that  they  are  crowded  into  ;  there  is  certainly  too 
much  "  subject "  here  for  the  size  of  the  canvas ;  but 
Father  Hedgehog  takes  up  little  space,  and  every  syllable 
about  him  is  as  keenly  pointed  as  the  spines  on  his  back. 
The  method  by  which  he  silenced  awkward  questions  from 
any  of  his  family  is  truly  delightful :  — 

"  '  Will  the  donkey  be  cooked  when  he  is  fat  ? '  asked  my 
mother. 

'"  I  smell  valerian,'  said  my  father,  on  which  she  put  out  her 
nose,  and  he  ran  at  it  with  his  prickles.  He  always  did  this 
when  he  was  annoyed  with  any  of  his  family ;  and  though  we 
knew  what  was  coming,  we  are  all  so  fond  of  valerian,  we  could 
never  resist  the  temptation  to  sniff,  just  on  the  chance  of  there 
being  some  about." 

Then,  the  following  season,  we  find  the  Hedgehog  Son 
grown  into  a  parent,  and  with  the  "  little  hoard  of  maxims  " 
he  had  inherited,  checking  the  too-inquiring  minds  of  his 
offspring :  —  # 

"'What  is  a  louis  d'or?' cried  three  of  my  children  ;  and 'what 
is  brandy  ? '  asked  the  other  four. 

" '  I  smell  valerian,'  said  I ;  on  which  they  poked  out  their 
seven  noses,  and  I  ran  at  them  with  my  spines,  for  a  father 
who  is  not  an  Encyclopaedia  on  all  fours  must  adopt  some  method 
of  checking  the  inquisitiveness  of  the  young." 

One  more  quotation  must  be  made  from  the  end  of  the 
story,  where  Father  Hedgehog  gives  a  list  of  the  fates  that 
befell  his  children  :  — 

"  Number  one  came  to  a  sad  end.  What  on  the  face  of  the 
wood  made  him  think  of  pheasants'  eggs  I  cannot  conceive. 
I  'm  sure  I  never  said  anything  about  them  !  It  was  while  he 
was  scrambling  along  the  edge  of  the  covert,  that  he  met  the 


TRUTH    IS    GOD'S    DAUGHTER.  43 

Fox,  and  very  properly  rolled  himself  into  a  ball.  The  Fox's 
nose  was  as  long  as  his  own,  and  he  rolled  my  poor  son  over 
and  over  with  it,  till  he  rolled  him  into  the  stream.  The  young 
urchins  swim  like  fishes,  but  just  as  he  was  scrambling  to  shore, 
the  Fox  caught  him  by  the  waistcoat  and  killed  him.  I  do  hate 
slyness  ! " 

It  seems  scarcely  conceivable  that  any  one  can  sympathize 
sufficiently  with  a  hedgehog  as  to  place  himself  in  the  latter's 
position,  and  share  its  paternal  anxieties  ;  but  I  think  Julie 
was  able  to  do  so,  or,  at  any  rate,  her  translations  of  the 
hedgepig's  whines  were  so  ben  trovati,  they  may  well  stand 
until  some  better  interpreter  of  the  languages  of  the  brute 
creation  rises  up  among  us. 

I  must  here  venture  to  remark  that  the  chief  and  lasting 
value  of  whatever  both  my  sister  and  my  mother  wrote  about 
animals,  or  any  other  objects  in  Nature,  lies  in  the  fact  that 
they  invariably  took  the  utmost  pains  to  verify  whatever  state- 
ments they  made  relating  to  those  objects.  Spiritual  laws 
can  only  be  drawn  from  the  natural  world  when  they  are 
based  on  truth. 

Julie  spared  no  trouble  in  trying  to  ascertain  whether 
hedgehogs  do  or  do  not  eat  pheasants'  eggs  ;  she  consulted 
"The  Field,"  and  books  on  sport,  and  her  sporting  friends, 
and  when  she  found  it  was  a  disputed  point,  she  determined 
to  give  the  hedgepig  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Then  the  taste 
for  valerian,  and  the  fox's  method  of  capture,  were  drawn 
from  facts,  and  the  gruesome  details  as  to  who  ate  who  in 
the  Glass  Pond  were  equally  well  founded. 

This  (1876)  volume  of  the  Magazine  is  rich  in  contribu- 
tions from  Julie,  the  reason  being  that  she  was  stronger  in 
health  while  she  lived  at  Aldershot  than  during  any  other 
period  of  her  life.    The  sweet  dry  air  of  "  the  Highwayman's 


44  DEATH   OF   A   PET   DOG. 

Heath  "  —  bared  though  it  was  of  heather  !  —  suited  her  so 
well,  she  could  sleep  with  her  hut  windows  open,  and  go  out 
into  her  garden  at  any  hour  of  the  evening  without  fear  of 
harm.  She  liked  to  stroll  out  and  listen  to  "  Retreat  "  being 
sounded  at  sundown,  especially  when  it  was  the  turn  of  some 
regiment  with  pipes  to  perform  the  duty ;  they  sounded  so 
shrill  and  weird,  coming  from  the  distant  hill  through  the 
growing  darkness. 

We  held  a  curious  function  one  hot  July  evening  during 
Retreat,  when,  the  Fates  being  propitious,  it  was  the  turn  of 
the  4 2d  Highlanders  to  play.  My  sister  had  taken  compas- 
sion on  a  stray  collie  puppy  a  few  weeks  before,  and  adopted 
him ;  he  was  very  soft-coated  and  fascinating  in  his  ways,  de- 
spite his  gawky  legs,  and  promised  to  grow  into  a  credit  to 
his  race.  But  it  seemed  he  was  too  finely  bred  to  survive 
the  ravages  of  distemper,  for,  though  he  was  tenderly  nursed, 
he  died.  A  wreath  of  flowers  was  hung  round  his  neck,  and, 
as  he  lay  on  his  bier,  Julie  made  a  sketch  of  him,  with  the 
inscription,  "  The  little  Colley,  Eheu  !  Taken  in,  June  14. 
In  spite  of  care,  died  July  1.  Speravimus  me/iora."  Major 
Ewing,  wearing  a  broad  Scotch  bonnet,  dug  a  grave  in  the 
garden,  and,  as  we  had  no  "  dinner  bell  "  to  muffle,  we 
waited  till  the  pipers  broke  forth  at  sundown  with  an  appro- 
priate air,  and  then  lowered  the  little  Scotch  dog  into  his 
resting-place. 

During  her  residence  at  Aldershot  Julie  wrote  three  of  her 
longest  books,  —  "A  Flat- Iron  for  a  Farthing,"  "  Six  to  Six- 
teen," and  "Jan  of  the  Windmill,"  —  besides  all  the  shorter 
tales  and  verses  that  she  contributed  to  the  Magazine  be- 
tween 1870  and  1877.  The  two  short  tales  which  seem  to 
me  her  very  best  came  out  in  1876,  namely,  "'  Our  Field  M1 
1  Reprinted  in  "  A  Great  Emergency,  and  other  Tales." 


"  OUR   FIELD."  45 

(about  which  I  have  already  spoken)  and  "  The  Blind  Man 
and  the  Talking  Dog."  Both  the  stories  were  written  to  fit 
some  old  German  woodcuts,  but  they  are  perfectly  different 
in  style  ;  "  Our  Field  "  is  told  in  the  language  and  from  the 
fresh  heart  of  a  child  ;  while  "  The  Blind  Man  "  is  such  a 
picture  of  life  from  cradle  to  grave  —  aye,  and  stretching  for- 
ward into  the  world  beyond  —  as  could  only  have  come  forth 
from  the  experiences  of  age.  But  though  this  be  so,  the 
lesson  shown  of  how  the  Boy's  story  foreshadows  the  Man's 
history,  is  one  which  cannot  be  learned  too  early. 

Julie  never  pictured  a  dearer  dog  than  the  Peronet  whom 
she  originated  from  the  fat  stumpy-tailed  puppy  who  is  seen 
playing  with  the  children  in  the  woodcut  to  "  Our  Field  :  " 

"  People  sometimes  asked  us  what  kind  of  a  dog  he  was,  but 
we  never  knew,  except  that  he  was  the  nicest  possible  kind.  .  .  . 
Peronet  was  as  fond  of  the  Field  as  we  were.  What  he  liked 
were  the  little  birds.  At  least,  I  don't  know  that  he  liked  them, 
but  they  were  what  he  chiefly  attended  to.  I  think  he  knew 
that  it  was  our  field,  and  thought  he  was  the  watch-dog  of  it ; 
and  whenever  a  bird  settled  down  anywhere,  he  barked  at  it, 
and  then  it  flew  away,  and  he  ran  barking  after  it  till  he  lost 
it  ;  by  that  time  another  had  settled  down,  and  then  Peronet 
flew  at  him,  all  up  and  down  the  hedge.  He  never  caught  a 
bird,  and  never  would  let  one  sit  down,  if  he  could  see  it." 

Then  what  a  vista  is  opened  by  the  light  that  is  "  left  out " 
in  the  concluding  words  :  — 

"  I  know  that  Our  Field  does  not  exactly  belong  to  us.  I 
wonder  whom  it  does  belong  to  ?  Richard  says  he  believes  it 
belongs  to  the  gentleman  who  lives  at  the  big  red  house  among 
the  trees.  But  he  must  be  wrong;  for  we  see  that  gentleman 
at  church  every  Sunday,  but  we  never  saw  him  in  Our  Field. 


46  "THE   BLIND   MAN." 


"  And  I  don't  believe  anybody  could  have  such  a  field  of  their 
very  own,  and  never  come  to  see  it,  from  one  end  of  summer  to 
the  other." 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  quote  portions  of  the  "  Blind 
Man  "  without  marring  the  whole.  The  story  is  so  con- 
densed, —  only  four  pages  in  length  ;  it  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  examples  of  my  sister's  favorite  rule  in  composition 
(to  which  further  allusion  shall  be  made  hereafter),  "never 
use  two  words  where  one  will  do."  But  from  these  four 
brief  pages  we  learn  as  much  as  if  four  volumes  had  been 
filled  with  descriptions  of  the  characters  of  the  Mayor's  son 
and  Aldegunda ;  from  her  birthday  —  on  which  the  boy 
grumbled  because  "  she  toddles  as  badly  as  she  did  yester- 
day, though  she  's  a  year  older,"  and  "  Aldegunda  sobbed 
till  she  burst  the  strings  of  her  hat,  and  the  boy  had  to  tie 
them  afresh  "  —  to  the  day  of  their  wedding,  when  the  Bride- 
groom thinks  he  can  take  possession  of  the  Blind  Man's 
Talking  Dog,  because  the  latter  had  promised  to  leave  his 
master  and  live  with  the  hero,  if  ever  he  could  claim  to  be 
perfectly  happy  —  happier  than  him  whom  he  regarded  as 
"  a  poor  wretched  old  beggar  in  want  of  everything." 

As  they  rode  together  in  search  of  the  Dog  :  — 

"  Aldegunda  thought  to  herself,  '  We  are  so  happy,  and  have 
so  much,  that  I  do  not  like  to  take  the  Blind  Man's  dog  from 
him;'  but  she  did  not  dare  to  say  so.  One — if  not  two  — 
must  bear  and  forbear  to  be  happy,  even  on  one's  wedding-day." 

And,  when  they  reached  their  journey's  end,  Lazarus  was 
no  longer  "  the  wretched  one  .  .  .  miserable,  poor,  and 
blind,"  but  was  numbered  among  the  blessed  dead,  and 
the  Dog  was  by  his  grave  :  — 


11 


>> 


THE  KYRKEGRIM.  47 


"  'Come  and  live  with  me,  now  your  old  master  is  gone,'  said 
the  young  man,  stooping  over  the  dog.     But  he  made  no  reply. 

" '  I  think  he  is  dead,  sir,'  said  the  grave-digger. 

"  '  I  don't  believe  it,'  said  the  young  man,  fretfully.  '  He  was 
an  Enchanted  Dog,  and  he  promised  I  should  have  him  when 
I  could  say  what  I  am  ready  to  say  now.  He  should  have  kept 
his  promise.' 

u  But  Aldegunda  had  taken  the  dog's  cold  head  into  her  arms, 
and  her  tears  fell  fast  over  it. 

" '  You  forget,'  she  said ;  '  he  only  promised  to  come  to  you 
when  you  were  happy,  if  his  old  master  was  not  happier  still ; 
and  perhaps  — ' 

" '  I  remember  that  you  always  disagree  with  me,'  said  the 
young  man,  impatiently.  '  You  always  did  so.  Tears  on  our 
wedding-day,  too !  I  suppose  the  truth  is,  that  no  one  is 
happy.' 

"  Aldegunda  made  no  answer,  for  it  is  not  from  those  one  loves 
that  he  will  willingly  learn  that  with  a  selfish  and  imperious 
temper  happiness  never  dwells." 

"The  Blind  Man"  was  inserted  in  the  Magazine  as  an 
"  Old-fashioned  Fairy  Tale,"  and  Julie  wrote  another  this 
year  (1876)  under  the  same  heading,  which  was  called 
"  I  Won't." 

She  also  wrote  a  delightfully  funny  legend,  "  The  Kyrke- 
grim  turned  Preacher,"  about  a  Norwegian  Brownie,  or  Niss, 
whose  duty  was  "  to  keep  the  church  clean,  and  to  scatter 
the  marsh  marigolds  on  the  floor  before  service,"  but  like 
other  church-sweepers  his  soul  was  troubled  by  seeing  the 
congregation  neglect  to  listen  to  the  preacher,  and  fall  asleep 
during  his  sermons.  Then  the  Kyrkegrim,  feeling  sure  that 
he  could  make  more  impression  on  their  hardened  hearts 
than  the  priest  did,  ascended  from  the  floor  to  the  pulpit, 
and  tried  to  set  the  world  to  rights ;  but  eventually  he  was 


48  HAPPY   FANCIES. 

glad  to  return  to  his  broom,  and  leave  "  heavier  responsibili- 
ties in  higher  hands." 

She  contributed  "  Hints  for  Private  Theatricals.  In  Let- 
ters from  Burnt  Cork  to  Rouge  Pot,"  which  were  probably 
suggested  by  the  private  theatricals  in  which  she  was  helping 
at  Aldershot ;  and  she  wrote  four  of  her  best  "  Verses  for 
Children,"  —  "Big  Smith,"  "House-building  and  Repairs," 
"An  Only  Child's  Tea- Party,"  and  "Papa  Poodle." 

"The  Adventures  of  an  Elf"  is  a  poem  to  some  clever 
silhouette  pictures  of  Fedor  Flinzer's,  which  she  freely  adapted 
from  the  German.  "  The  Snarling  Princess  "  is  a  fairy  tale 
also  adapted  from  the  German ;  but  neither  of  these  contri- 
butions was  so  well  worth  the  trouble  of  translation  as  a  fine 
dialogue  from  the  French  of  Jean  Mace"  called  "  War  and  the 
Dead,"  which  Julie  gave  to  the  number  of  "  Aunt  Judy  "  for 
October,  1866.  "The  Princes  of  Vegetation  "  (April,  1876) 
is  an  article  on  palm-trees,  to  which  family  Linnaeus  had 
given  this  noble  title. 

The  last  contribution,  in  1876,  which  remains  to  be  men- 
tioned is  "  Dandelion  Clocks,"  a  short  tale  ;  but  it  will  need 
rather  a  long  introduction,  as  it  opens  out  into  a  fresh  trait 
of  my  sister's  character,  namely,  her  love  for  flowers. 

It  need  scarcely  be  said  that  she  wrote  as  accurately  about 
them  as  about  everything  else ;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  she 
enveloped  them  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  sentiment  as  served 
to  give  life  and  individuality  to  their  inanimate  forms.  The 
habit  of  weaving  stories  round  them  began  in  girlhood,  when 
she  was  devoted  to  reading  Mr.  J.  G.  Wood's  graceful  trans- 
lation of  Alphonse  Karr's  "Voyage  autour  de  mon  Jardin." 
The  book  was  given  to  her  in  T856  by  her  father,  and  it  ex- 
ercised a  strong  influence  upon  her  mind.  What  else  made 
the  ungraceful  Buddlsea  lovely  in  her  eyes?     I  confess  that 


"  LETTER   XL."  49 

when  she  pointed  out  the  shrub  to  me  for  the  first  time,  in 
Mr.  Ellacombe's  garden,  it  looked  so  like  the  "  Plum-pudding 
tree  "  in  the  "  Willow  pattern  "  and  fell  so  far  short  of  my 
expectation  of  the  plant  over  which  the  two  florists  had 
squabbled,  that  I  almost  wished  that  I  had  not  seen  it. 
Still  I  did  not  share  their  discomfiture  so  fully  as  to  think  "  it 
no  longer  good  for  anything  but  firewood  !  " 

Karr's  fifty-eighth  "  Letter  "  nearly  sufficed  to  enclose  a 
declaration  of  love  in  every  bunch  of  "  yellow  roses  "  which 
Julie  tied  together ;  and  to  plant  an  "  Incognito  "  for  dis- 
covery in  every  bed  of  tulips  she  looked  at ;  while  her  favor- 
ite "  Letter  XL.,"  on  the  result  produced  by  inhaling  the  odor 
of  bean  flowers,  embodies  the  spirit  of  the  ideal  existence 
which  she  passed,  as  she  walked  through  the  fields  of  our 
work-a-day  world  :  — 

"  The  beans  were  in  full  blossom.  But  a  truce  to  this  cold- 
hearted  pleasantry.  No,  it  is  not  a  folly  to  be  under  the  empire 
of  the  most  beautiful  —  the  most  noble  feelings  ;  it  is  no  folly  to 
feel  oneself  great,  strong,  invincible  ;  it  is  not  a  folly  to  have  a 
good,  honest,  and  generous  heart ;  it  is  no  folly  to  be  filled  with 
good  faith  ;  it  is  not  a  folly  to  devote  oneself  for  the  good  of 
others  ;  it  is  not  a  folly  to  live  thus  out  of  real  life. 

"  No,  no  ;  that  cold  wisdom  which  pronounces  so  severe  a  judg- 
ment upon  all  it  cannot  do  ;  that  wisdom  which  owes  its  birth 
to  the  death  of  so  many  great,  noble,  and  sweet  things  ;  that 
wisdom  which  only  comes  with  infirmities,  and  which  decorates 
them  with  such  fine  names  ;  which  calls  decay  of  the  powers 
of  the  stomach  and  loss  of  appetite  sobriety;  the  cooling  of 
the  heart  and  the  stagnation  of  the  blood  a  return  to  reason; 
envious  impotence  a  disdain  for  futile  things, — this  wisdom 
would  be  the  greatest,  the  most  melancholy  of  follies,  if  it 
were  not  the  commencement  of  the  death  of  the  heart  and  the 


50  "DANDELION   CLOCKS. 

I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  claim  for  Alphonse  Karr  a 
solitary  capability  of  drawing  beautiful  lessons  from  Nature, 
but  have  instanced  his  power  of  finding  a  quaint  mixture  of 
philosophy  and  deep  romance  in  his  garden,  because  it  is 
more  in  accordance  with  the  current  of  my  sister's  mind, 
than  the  gathering  of  such  exquisite,  but  totally  different 
teaching,  as  Kingsley  drew  during  the  course  of  his  limited 
"Winter's  Walk,"  or  his  strolls  by  "The  Chalk  Stream." 

"  Dandelion  Clocks  "  resembles  one  of  Karr's  "  Letters  " 
in  containing  the  germs  of  a  three-volumed  romance,  but 
they  are  the  germs  only ;  and  the  "  proportions "  of  the 
picture  are  consequently  well  preserved.  Indeed,  the  tale 
always  reminds  me  of  a  series  of  peaceful  scenes  by  Cuyp, 
with  low  horizons,  sleek  cattle,  and  a  glow  in  the  sky  beto- 
kening the  approach  of  sunset.  First  we  have  "  Peter  Paul 
and  his  two  sisters  playing  in  the  pastures  "  at  blowing  dan- 
delion clocks  :  — 

"Rich,  green,  Dutch  pastures,  unbroken  by  hedge  or  wall, 
which  stretched — like  an  emerald  ocean  —  to  the  horizon  and 
met  the  sky.  The  cows  stood  ankle-deep  in  it  and  chewed  the 
cud,  the  clouds  sailed  slowly  over  it  to  the  sea,  and  on  a  dry 
hillock  sat  mother,  in  her  broad  sun-hat,  with  one  eye  to  the 
cows,  and  one  to  the  linen  she  was  bleaching,  thinking  of  her 
farm." 

The  actual  outlines  of  this  scene  may  be  traced  in  the  Ger- 
man woodcut  to  which  the  tale  was  written,  but  the  coloring 
is  Julie's.  The  only  disturbing  element  in  this  quiet  picture 
is  Peter  Paul's  restless,  inquiring  heart.  What  wonder  that 
when  his  bulb-growing  uncle  fails  to  solve  the  riddle  of  life, 
Peter  Paul  should  go  out  into  the  wider  world  and  try  to  find 
a  solution  for  himself?     But  the  answers  to  our  life  problems 


"  DANDELION   CLOCKS."  5 1 

full  often  are  to  be  found  within,  for  those  who  will  look,  and 
so  Peter  Paul  comes  back  after  some  years  to  find  that,  — 

"The  elder  sister  was  married  and  had  two  children.  She 
had  grown  up  very  pretty,  —  a  fair  woman,  with  liquid  misleading 
eyes.  They  looked  as  if  they  were  gazing  into  the  far  future, 
but  they  did  not  see  an  inch  beyond  the  farm.  Anna  was  a  very 
plain  copy  of  her  in  body ;  in  mind  she  was  the  elder  sister's 
echo.  They  were  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  the  prettiest 
thinff  about  them  was  their  faithful  love  for  their  mother,  whose 
memory  was  kept  as  green  as  pastures  after  rain." 

Peter  Paul's  temperament,  however,  was  not  one  that  could 
adapt  itself  to  a  stagnant  existence  ;  so  when  his  three  weeks 
on  shore  are  ended,  we  see  him  on  his  way  from  the  Home 
Farm  to  join  his  ship  :  — 

"  Leena  walked  far  over  the  pastures  with  Peter  Paul.  She 
was  very  fond  of  him,  and  she  had  a  woman's  perception  that 
they  would  miss  him  more  than  he  could  miss  them. 

" '  I  am  very  sorry  you  could  not  settle  down  with  us,'  she 
said,  and  her  eyes  brimmed  over. 

"  Peter  Paul  kissed  the  tears  tenderly  from  her  cheeks. 

"  '  Perhaps  I  shall  when  I  am  older,  and  have  shaken  off  a  few 
more  of  my  whims  into  the  sea.  I  '11  come  back  yet,  Leena,  and 
live  very  near  to  you,  and  grow  tulips,  and  be  as  good  an  old 
bachelor-uncle  to  your  boy  as  Uncle  Jacob  is  to  me.' 

•  •••••• 

"  When  they  got  to  the  hillock  where  mother  used  to  sit,  Peter 
Paul  took  her  once  more  into  his  arms. 

"'Good-by,  good  sister,'  he  said,  '  I  have  been  back  in  my 
childhood  again,  and  God  knows  that  is  both  pleasant  and 
good  for  one.' 

"  '  And  it  is  funny  that  you  should  say  so,'  said  Leena,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears  ;  '  for  when  we  were  children  you  were 
never  happy  except  in  thinking  of  when  you  should  be  a  man.'  " 


52 


DANDELION   CLOCKS." 


And  with  this  salutary  home-thrust  (which  thoroughly 
common-place  minds  have  such  a  provoking  faculty  for 
giving)   Leena  went  back  to  her  children  and  cattle. 

Happy  for  the  artistic  temperament  that  can  profit  by 
such  rebuffs  ! 


PART    III. 

Yet,  how  few  believe  such  doctrine  springs 

From  a  poor  root, 
Which  all  the  winter  sleeps  here  under  foot, 

And  hath  no  wings 
To  raise  it  to  the  truth  and  light  of  things; 

But  is  still  trod 
By  ev'ry  wand'ring  clod. 

O  Thou,  whose  Spirit  did  at  first  inflame 

And  warm  the  dead, 
And  by  a  sacred  incubation  fed 

With  life  this  frame, 
Which  once  had  neither  being,  forme,  nor  name ; 

Grant  I  may  so 
Thy  steps  track  here  below, 

That  in  these  masques  and  shadows  I  may  see 

Thy  sacred  way ; 
And  by  those  hid  ascents  climb  to  that  day 

Which  breaks  from  Thee, 
Who  art  in  all  things,  though  invisibly ! 

The  Hidden  Flower.  —Henry  Vaughan. 

NE  of  the  causes  which  helped  to  develop  my  sis- 
ter's interest  in  flowers  was  the  sight  of  the  fresh 
ones  that  she  met  with  on  going  to  live  in  New 
Brunswick  after  her  marriage.  Every  strange  face  was  a 
subject  for  study,  and  she  soon  began  to  devote  a  note-book 
to  sketches  of  these  new  friends,  naming  them  scientifically 
from  Professor  Asa  Gray's  "  Manual  of  the  Botany  of  the 
Northern  United  States,"  while  Major  Ewing  added  as  many 
of  the    Melicete   names   as  he  could  glean  from   Peter,  a 


54  THE   MEANEST   FLOWER   CAN   GIVE 

member  of  the  tribe,  who  had  attached  himself  to  the  Ewings, 
and  used  constantly  to  come  about  their  house.  Peter  and 
his  wife  lived  in  a  small  colony  of  the  Melicete  Indians, 
which  was  established  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  St.  John 
River  to  that  on  which  the  Reka  Dom  stood.  Mrs.  Peter 
was  the  most  skilful  embroiderer  in  beads  among  her  peo- 
ple, and  Peter  himself  the  best  canoe-builder.  He  made  a 
beautiful  one  for  the  Ewings,  which  they  constantly  used ; 
and  when  they  returned  to  England  his  regret  at  losing  them 
was  wonderfully  mitigated  by  the  present  which  Major  Ewing 
gave  him  of  an  old  gun  ;  he  declared  no  gentleman  had  ever 
thought  of  giving  him  such  a  thing  before  ! 

Julie  introduced  several  of  the  North  American  flowers 
into  her  stories.  The  tabby-striped  Arum,  or  Jack-in-the- 
Pulpit  (as  it  is  called  in  Mr.  Whittier's  delightful  collection 
of  child-poems),  appears  in  "We  and  the  World,"  where 
Dennis,  the  rollicking  Irish  hero,  unintentionally  raises  himself 
in  the  estimation  of  his  sober-minded  Scotch  companion, 
Alister,  by  betraying  that  he  "  can  speak  with  other  tongues," 
from  his  ability  to  converse  with  a  squaw  in  French  on  the 
subject  of  the  bunch  of  Arums  he  had  gathered  and  was 
holding  in  his  hand. 

This  allusion  was  only  a  slight  one,  but  Julie  wrote  a  com- 
plete story  on  one  species  of  Trillium,  having  a  special  affec- 
tion for  the  whole  genus.  Trilliums  are  among  the  North 
American  herbaceous  plants  which  have  lately  become  fash- 
ionable, and  easy  to  be  bought  in  England;  but  ere  they 
did  so,  Julie  made  some  ineffectual  attempts  to  transplant 
tubers  of  them  into  English  soil ;  and  the  last  letter  she  re- 
ceived from  Fredericton  contained  a  packet  of  red  Trillium 
seeds,  which  came  too  late  to  be  sown  before  she  died.  The 
species  which  she  immortalized  in  "  The  Blind  Hermit  and 


THOUGHTS   TOO   DEEP   FOR  TEARS.  55 

the  Trinity  Flower,"  was  T.  erythrocarpum.  The  story  is  a 
graceful  legend  of  an  old  Hermit  whose  life  was  spent  in 
growing  herbs  for  the  healing  of  diseases ;  and  when  he,  in 
his  turn,  was  struck  with  blindness,  he  could  not  reconcile 
himself  to  the  loss  of  the  occupation  which  alone  seemed 
to  make  him  of  use  in  the  world.  "  They  also  serve  who 
only  stand  and  wait,"  was  a  hard  lesson  to  learn ;  every  day 
he  prayed  for  some  Balm  of  Gilead  to  heal  his  ill,  and  restore 
his  sight,  and  the  prayer  was  answered,  though  not  in  the 
manner  that  he  desired.  First  he  was  supplied  with  a  serv- 
ing-boy, who  became  eyes  and  feet  to  him,  from  gratitude 
for  cures  which  the  Hermit  had  done  to  the  lad  himself; 
and  then  a  vision  was  granted  to  the  old  man,  wherein  he 
saw  a  flower  which  would  heal  his  blindness  :  — 

"And  what  was  the  Trinity  Flower  like,  my  Father  ?"  asked 
the  boy. 

"  It  was  about  the  size  of  Herb  Paris,  my  son,"  replied  the 
Hermit.  "  But  instead  of  being  fourfold  every  way,  it  num- 
bered the  mystic  Three.  Every  part  was  threefold.  The  leaves 
were  three,  the  petals  three,  the  sepals  three.  The  flower  was 
snow-white,  but  on  each  of  the  three  parts  it  was  stained  with 
crimson  stripes,  like  white  garments  dyed  in  blood." 

A  root  of  this  plant  was  sent  to  the  Hermit  by  a  heavenly 
messenger,  which  the  boy  planted,  and  anxiously  watched 
the  growth  of,  cheering  his  master  with  the  hope,  "  Patience, 
my  Father,  thou  shalt  see  yet !  " 

Meantime  greater  light  was  breaking  in  upon  the  Hermit's 
soul  than  had  been  there  before  :  — 

"  My  son,  I  repent  me  that  I  have  not  been  patient  under 
affliction.  Moreover,  I  have  set  thee  an  ill  example,  in  that  I 
have  murmured  at  that  which  God  —  who  knoweth  best  —  or- 
dained for  me." 


56  A   FLOWER   LEGEND. 

And,  when  the  boy  ofttimes  repeated,  "  Thou  shalt  yet  see,,; 
the  Hermit  answered,  "If  God  will.  When  God  will.  As  God 
will." 

And  at  last,  when  the  white  bud  opens,  and  the  blood-like 
stains  are  visible  within,  he  who  once  was  blind  sees,  but  his 
vision  is  opened  on  eternal  day. 

In  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine"  for  1877  there  is  another 
flower  legend,  but  of  an  English  plant,  the  Lily  of  the 
Valley.  Julie  called  the  tale  by  the  old-fashioned  name  of 
the  flower,  "  Ladders  to  Heaven."  The  scenery  is  pictured 
from  spots  near  her  Yorkshire  home,  where  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  seeing  beautiful  valleys  blackened  by  smoke  from 
iron  furnaces,  and  the  woods  beyond  the  church,  where  she 
liked  to  ramble,  filled  with  desolate  heaps  of  black  shale,  the 
refuse  left  round  the  mouths  of  disused  coal  and  ironstone 
pits.  I  remember  how  glad  we  were  when  we  found  the 
woolly-leaved  yellow  mullein  growing  on  some  of  these  dreary 
places,  and  helping  to  cover  up  their  nakedness.  In  later 
years  my  sister  heard  with  much  pleasure  that  a  mining 
friend  was  doing  what  he  could  to  repair  the  damages  he 
made  on  the  beauty  of  the  country,  by  planting  over  the 
worked-out  mines  such  trees  and  plants  as  would  thrive  in 
the  poor  and  useless  shale,  which  was  left  as  a  covering  to 
once  rich  and  valuable  spots. 

"  Brothers  of  Pity  "  J  ("  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine,"  1877)  shows 
a  deep  and  minute  insight  into  the  feelings  of  a  solitary  child, 
which  one  fancies  Julie  must  have  acquired  by  the  process  of 
contrast  with  her  own  surroundings  of  seven  brethren  and 
sisters.  A  similar  power  of  perception  was  displayed  in  her 
verses  on  "  An  Only  Child's  Tea-party." 

1  Brothers  of  Pity,  and  other  Tales  of  Beasts  and  Men. 


"BROTHERS   OF   PITY."  57 

She  remembered  from  experiences  of  our  own  childhood 
what  a  favorite  game  "  funerals  "  is  with  those  whose  "  whole 
vocation"  is  yet  "  endless  imitation  ;  "  and  she  had  watched 
the  soldiers'  children  in  camp  play  at  it  so  often  that  she 
knew  it  was  not  only  the  bright  covering  of  the  Union  Jack 
which  made  death  lovely  in  their  eyes.  "  Blind  Baby  "  en- 
joyed it  for  the  sake  of  the  music ;  and  even  civilians'  chil- 
dren, who  see  the  service  devoid  of  sweet  sounds,  and  under 
its  blackest  and  most  revolting  aspect,  still  are  strangely  fas- 
cinated thereby.  Julie  had  heard  about  one  of  these,  a  lonely, 
motherless  boy,  whose  chief  joy  was  to  harness  Granny  to  his 
"  hearse  "  and  play  at  funeral  processions  round  the  drawing- 
room,  where  his  dead  mother  had  once  toddled  in  her  turn. 

The  boy  in  "  Brothers  of  Pity  "  is  the  principal  character, 
and  the  animals  occupy  minor  positions.  Cock-Robin  only 
appears  as  a  corpse  on  the  scene ;  and  Julie  did  not  touch 
much  on  bird  pets  in  any  of  her  tales,  chiefly  because  she 
never  kept  one,  having  too  much  sympathy  with  their  powers 
and  cravings  for  flight  to  reconcile  herself  to  putting  them  in 
cages.  The  flight  and  recapture  of  the  Cocky  in  "  Lob  " 
were  drawn  from  life,  though  the  bird  did  not  belong  to  her, 
but  her  descriptions  of  how  he  stood  on  the  window-sill 
"  scanning  the  summer  sky  with  his  fierce  eyes,  and  flapping 
himself  in  the  breeze,  .  .  .  bowed  his  yellow  crest,  spread 
his  noble  wings,  and  sailed  out  into  the  tether ;  "  .  .  .  and 
his  "  dreams  of  liberty  in  the  tree-tops,"  all  show  the  light  in 
which  she  viewed  the  practice  of  keeping  birds  in  confine- 
ment. Her  verses  on  "Three  Little  Nest-Birds"  and  her 
tale  of  the  thrush  in  "  An  Idyl  of  the  Wood  "  bear  witness 
to  the  same  feeling.  Major  Ewing  remembers  how  often 
she  used  to  wish,  when  passing  bird-shops,  that  she  could 
"  buy  the  whole  collection  and  set  them  all  free,"  a  desire 


58  SKETCH   OF   A   PET   CAT. 

which  suggests  a  quaint  vision  of  her  in  "  Seven  Dials,"  with 
a  mixed  flock  of  macaws,  canaries,  parrots,  and  thrushes  shriek- 
ing and  flying  round  her  head ;  but  the  wish  was  worthy  o 
her  in  what  Mr.  Howells  called  "  woman's  heaven-born  igno- 
rance of  the  insuperable  difficulties  of  doing  right." 

In  this  (1877)  volume  of  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  "  there  is 
a  striking  portrait  of  another  kind  of  animal  pet,  the  Kit 
who  is  resolved  to  choose  her  own  "  cradle,"  and  not  to 
sleep  where  she  is  told.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  she  gets 
her  own  way,  since,  — 

"  There  's  a  soft  persistence  about  a  cat 
That  even  a  little  kitten  can  show." 

She  has,  however,  the  grace  to  purr  when  she  is  pleased, 
which  all  kits  and  cats  have  not :  — 

"  I  'm  happy  in  ev'ry  hair  of  my  fur, 
They  may  keep  the  hamper  and  hay  themselves." 

There  are  three  other  sets  of  verses  in  the  volume,  and  all 
of  them  were  originally  written  to  old  woodcuts,  but  have 
since  been  re-illustrated  by  Mr.  Andre\ 

"  A  Sweet  Little  Dear  "  is  the  personification  of  a  selfish 
girl,  and  "  Master  Fritz  "  of  an  equally  selfish  boy  ;  but  his 
sister  Katerina  is  delicious  by  contrast,  as  she  gives  heed  to 
his  schemes  :  — 

"And  if  you  make  nice  feasts  everyday  for  me  and  Nickel, 

and  never  keep  us  waiting  for  our  food, 
And  always  do  everything  I  want,  and  attend  to  everything 

I  say,  I  'm  sure  I  shall  almost  always  be  good. 
And  if  I  'm  naughty  now  and  then,  it'll  most  likely  be  your 

fault :  and  if  it  is  n't,  you  must  n't  mind  ; 
For  even  if  I  seem  to  be  cross,  you  ought  to  know  that  I 

mean  to  be  kind." 


WHERE  THOU   ART   MUST   BE   HOME.  59 

An  old-fashioned  fairy  tale,  "  The  Magician  turned  Mis- 
chief-maker," came  out  in  1877  ;  and  a  short  domestic  tale 
called  "A  Bad  Habit;"  but  Julie  was  unable  to  supply 
any  long  contributions  this  year,  as  in  April  her  seven-years' 
home  at  Aldershot  was  broken  up  in  consequence  of  Major 
Ewing  being  ordered  to  Manchester,  and  her  time  was  occu- 
pied by  the  labor  and  process  of  removing. 

She  took  down  the  motto  which  she  had  hung  over  her 
hearth  to  temper  her  joy  in  the  comfort  thereof,  —  Ut  migra- 
turus  habita,  —  and  moved  the  scroll  on  to  her  next  resting- 
place.  No  one  knew  better  than  she  the  depth  of  Mrs. 
Hemans's  definition,  —  "  What  is  home,  —  and  where,  — 
but  with  the  loving?"  and  most  truly  can  it  be  said  that 
wherever  Julie  went  she  carried  "  Home "  with  her ;  free- 
dom, generosity,  and  loving  welcome  were  always  to  be 
found  in  her  house,  —  even  if  upholstery  and  carpets  ran 
short.  It  was  a  joke  among  some  of  her  friends  that 
though  rose-colored  curtains  and  bevelled-edged  looking- 
glasses  could  be  counted  upon  in  their  bed-rooms,  such 
commonplace  necessities  as  soap  might  be  forgotten,  and 
the  glasses  be  fastened  in  artistic  corners  of  the  rooms, 
rather  than  in  such  lights  as  were  best  adapted  for  shav- 
ing by. 

Julie  followed  the  course  of  the  new  lines  in  which  her  lot 
was  cast  most  cheerfully,  but  the  "  mighty  heart  "  could  not 
really  support  the  "  little  body  ;  "  and  the  fatigue  of  packing, 
combined  with  the  effects  of  the  relaxing  climate  of  Bowdon, 
near  Manchester,  where  she  went  to  live,  acted  sadly  upon 
her  constitution.  She  was  able,  however,  after  settling  in  the 
North,  to  pay  more  frequent  visits  to  Ecclesfield  than  before  ; 
and  the  next  work  that  she  did  for  "Aunt  Judy's  Magazine" 
bears  evidences  of  the  renewal  of  Yorkshire  associations. 


60  "  WE  AND   THE   WORLD 


!> 


This  story,  "  We  and  the  World,"  was  specially  intended 
for  boys,  and  the  "  law  of  contrast  "  in  it  was  meant  to  be 
drawn  between  the  career  which  Cripple  Charlie  spent  at 
home,  and  those  of  the  three  lads  who  went  out  into  "  the 
World "  together.  Then,  too,  she  wished,  as  I  mentioned 
before,  to  contrast  the  national  types  of  character  in  the  Eng- 
lish, Scotch,  and  Irish  heroes,  and  to  show  the  good  con- 
tained in  each  of  them.  But  the  tale  seemed  to  have  been 
begun  under  an  unlucky  star.  The  first  half,  which  came 
out  in  the  first  six  numbers  of  the  Magazine  for  1878,  is  ex- 
cellent as  a  matter  of  art ;  and  as  pictures  of  north-country 
life  and  scenery  nothing  can  be  better  than  Walnut-tree  Farm 
and  Academy,  the  Miser's  funeral,  and  the  Bee-master's 
visit  to  his  hives  on  the  moors,  combined  with  attendance 
at  church  on  a  hot  Sunday  afternoon  in  August  (it  need 
scarcely  be  said  that  the  church  is  a  real  one).  But,  good 
though  all  this  is,  it  is  too  long  and  "  out  of  proportion," 
when  one  reflects  how  much  of  the  plot  was  left  to  be  un- 
ravelled in  the  other  half  of  the  tale.  "The  World  "  could 
not  properly  be  squeezed  into  a  space  only  equal  in  size  to 
that  which  had  been  devoted  to  "  Home."  If  Julie  had 
been  in  better  health,  she  would  have  foreseen  the  dilemma 
into  which  she  was  falling,  but  she  did  not,  and  in  the  autumn 
of  1878  she  had  to  lay  the  tale  aside,  for  Major  Ewing  was 
sent  to  be  stationed  at  York.  "We  "  was  put  by  until  the 
following  volume ;  but  for  this  (1878)  one  she  wrote  two 
other  short  contributions,  —  "  The  Yellow  Fly  ;  a  Tale  with  a 
Sting  in  It,"  and  "  So-so." 

To  those  who  do  not  read  between  the  lines,  "So-so" 
sounds  (as  he  felt)  "  very  soft  and  pleasant,"  but  to  me  the 
tale  is  in  Julie's  saddest  strain,  because  of  the  suspicion  of 
hopelessness  that  pervades  it,  —  a  spirit  which  I  do  not  trace 


"  so-so."  61 

in  any  of  her  other  writings.  So-so  was  only  the  widow's 
house-dog,  but  he  represents  the  sadly  large  class  of  those 
who  are  "  neither  hot  nor  cold,"  and  whom  Dante  saw  as 

"     the  melancholy  souls  of  those 


Who  lived  withouten  infamy  or  praise, 
Commingled  are  they  with  that  caitiff  choir 
Of  angels,  who  have  not  rebellious  been, 
Nor  faithful  were  to  God,  but  were  for  self. 
The  heavens  expelled  them,  not  to  be  less  fair ; 
Nor  them  the  nethermore  abyss  receives, 
For  glory  none  the  damned  would  have  from  them. 

•  ••••••  • 

These  have  no  longer  any  hope  of  death  ; 

And  this  blind  life  of  theirs  is  so  debased, 

They  envious  are  of  every  other  fate. 
No  fame  of  them  the  world  permits  to  be, 

Misericord  and  Justice  both  disdain  them. 

Let  us  not  speak  of  them,  but  look  and  pass." 

"  Be  sure,  my  child,"  said  the  widow  to  her  little  daughter, 
*■  that  you  always  do  just  as  you  are  told." 

"Very  well,  mother." 

"  Or  at  any  rate  do  what  will  do  just  as  well,"  said  the  small 
house-dog,  as  he  lay  blinking  at  the  fire. 

■  •■•■••• 

"  For  the  future,  my  child,"  said  the  widow,  "  I  hope  you 
will  always  do  just  as  you  are  told,  whatever  So-so  may  say." 

"  I  will,  mother,"  said  little  Joan.  (And  she  did.)  But  the 
house-dog  sat  and  blinked.  He  dared  not  speak,  he  was  in 
disgrace. 

"  I  do  not  feel  quite  sure  about  So-so.  Wild  dogs  often 
amend  their  ways  far  on  this  side  of  the  gallows,  and  the  faith- 
ful sometimes  fall ;  but  when  any  one  begins  by  being  only  so-so, 
he  is  very  apt  to  be  so-so  to  the  end.  So-sos  so  seldom 
change." 


62  "A   GENTLEMAN   OF  THE   ROAD." 

Before  turning  from  the  record  of  my  sister's  life  at  Man- 
chester, I  must  mention  a  circumstance  which  gave  her  very 
great  pleasure  there.  In  the  summer  of  1875  she  and  I  went 
up  from  Aldershot  to  see  the  Exhibition  of  Water-colors  by 
the  Royal  Society  of  Painters,  and  she  was  completely  fasci- 
nated by  a  picture  of  Mr.  J.  D.  Watson's,  called  "  A  Gentle- 
man of  the  Road."  It  represented  a  horseman  at  daybreak, 
allowing  his  horse  to  drink  from  a  stream,  while  he  sat  half- 
turned  in  the  saddle  to  look  back  at  a  gallows  which  was 
visible  on  the  horizon  against  the  beams  of  rising  light.  The 
subject  may  sound  very  sensational,  but  it  was  not  that  as- 
pect of  it  which  charmed  my  sister ;  she  found  beauty  as  well 
as  romance  in  it,  and  after  we  returned  to  camp  in  the  evening 
she  became  so  restless  and  engrossed  by  what  she  had  seen, 
that  she  got  up  during  the  night,  and  planned  out  the  head- 
ings of  a  story  on  the  picture,  adding  —  characteristically  —  a 
moral  or  "  soul  "  to  the  subject  by  a  quotation  from  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  — Respice  jincm,  "In  all  things  remember  the  end." 

This  "  mapped-out  "  story,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  remains  un- 
finished. The  manuscript  went  through  many  vicissitudes, 
was  inadvertently  torn  up  and  thrown  into  the  waste-paper 
basket,  whence  it  was  rescued  and  the  pieces  carefully  en- 
closed in  an  envelope  ready  for  mending ;  but  afterwards  lost 
again  for  many  months  in  a  box  that  was  sent  abroad,  and 
now  it  must  ever  remain  among  the  unwritten. 

This  incident  will,  however,  serve  to  show  what  a  strong 
impression  the  picture  had  made  upon  Julie's  mind,  so  it  will 
readily  be  imagined  how  intensely  delighted  she  was  when 
she  unexpectedly  made  the  acquaintance,  at  Manchester,  of 
Mr.  Galloway,  who  proved  to  have  bought  Mr.  Watson's  work, 
and  he  was  actually  kind  enough  to  lend  the  treasure  to  her 
for  a  considerable  time,  so  that  she  could  study  it  thoroughly 


HOUSE   DECORATIONS.  63 

and  make  a  most  accurate  copy  of  it.  Mr.  Galloway's  friend- 
ship, and  that  of  some  other  people  whom  she  first  met  at 
Bowdon,  were  the  brightest  spots  in  Julie's  existence  during 
this  period. 

In  September,  1878,  the  Ewings  removed  to  Fulford,  near 
York,  and,  on  their  arrival,  Julie  at  once  devoted  herself  to 
adorning  her  new  home.  We  were  very  much  amused  by 
the  incredulous  amazement  betrayed  on  the  stolid  face  of  an 
elderly  workman,  to  whom  it  was  explained  that  he  was  re- 
quired to  distemper  the  walls  of  the  drawing-room  with  a  sole 
color,  instead  of  covering  them  with  a  paper,  after  the  man- 
ner of  all  the  other  drawing-rooms  he  had  ever  had  to  do 
with.  But  he  was  too  polite  to  express  his  difference  of  taste 
by  more  than  looks ;  and  some  days  after  the  room  was 
finished,  with  etchings  duly  hung  on  velvet  in  the  panels  of 
the  door,  —  the  sole-colored  walls  well  covered  with  pictures, 
whence  they  stood  out  undistracted  by  gold  and  flowery 
paper  patterns,  —  the  distemperer  called,  and  asked  if  he 
might  be  allowed,  as  a  favor,  to  see  the  result  of  Mrs.  Evving's 
arrangements.  I  forget  if  he  expressed  anything  by  words, 
as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  twisting  his  hat  in  his 
fingers,  but  we  had  learned  to  read  his  face,  and  Julie  was 
fully  satisfied  with  the  fresh  expression  of  amazement  mixed 
with  admiration  which  she  saw  there. 

One  theory  which  she  held  strongly  about  the  decoration 
of  houses  was,  that  the  contents  ought  to  represent  the  asso- 
ciations of  the  inmates,  rather  than  the  skill  of  their  uphol- 
sterer ;  and  for  this  reason  she  would  not  have  liked  to  limit 
any  of  her  rooms  to  one  special  period,  such  as  Queen  Anne's, 
unless  she  had  possessed  an  old  house,  built  at  some  date  to 
which  a  special  kind  of  furniture  belonged.  She  contrived 
to  make  her  home  at  York  a  very  pretty  one ;  but  it  was  of 


64  CANE  VECCHIO   NON   BAIA   INDARNO. 

short  duration,  for  in  March,  1879,  Major  Ewing  was  de- 
spatched to  Malta,  and  Julie  had  to  begin  to  pack  her  Lares 
and  Penates  once  more. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  wondered  that  s"he  was  allowed  to 
spend  her  time  and  strength  on  the  labor  of  packing,  which 
a  professional  worker  would  have  done  far  better,  but  it  is 
easier  to  see  the  mistakes  of  others  than  to  rectify  our  own. 
There  were  many  difficulties  to  be  encountered,  not  the  least 
of  these  being  Julie's  own  strong  will,  and  bad  though  it  was, 
in  one  sense,  for  her  to  be  physically  over-tired,  it  was  better 
than  letting  her  be  mentally  so  ;  and  to  an  active  brain  like 
hers  "change  of  occupation"  is  the  only  possible  form  of 
"  rest."  Professional  packers  and  road  and  rail  cars  represent 
money,  and  Julie's  skill  in  packing  both  securely  and  eco- 
nomically was  undeniably  great.  This  is  not  surprising  if  we 
hold,  as  an  old  friend  does,  that  ladies  would  make  far  better 
housemaids  than  uneducated  women  do,  because  they  would 
throw  their  brains  as  well  as  muscles  into  their  work.  Julie 
did  throw  her  brains  into  everything,  big  or  little,  that  she 
undertook  ;  and  one  of  her  best  and  dearest  friends  —  whose 
belief  in  my  sister's  powers  and  "  mission  "  as  a  writer  were 
so  strong  that  she  almost  grudged  even  the  time  "  wasted  " 
on  sketching,  which  might  have  been  given  to  penning  more 
stories  for  the  age  which  boasts  Gordon  as  its  hero  ;  and 
who,  being  with  Julie  at  her  death,  could  not  believe  till  the 
very  end  came  that  she  would  be  taken,  while  so  much 
seemed  to  remain  for  her  to  do  here  —  confessed  to  me 
afterwards  she  had  learned  to  see  that  Julie's  habit  of  expend- 
ing her  strength  on  trifles  arose  from  an  effort  of  nature  to 
balance  the  vigor  of  her  mind,  which  was  so  much  greater 
than  that  of  her  body. 

During  the  six  months  that  my  sister  resided  in  York  she 


"  FLAPS."  65 

wrote  a  few  contributions  for  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine."  To 
the  number  of  January,  1879,  she  gave  "  Flaps,"  a  sequel  to 
"  The  Hens  of  Hencastle." 

The  latter  story  was  not  written  by  her,  but  was  a  free 
adaptation  which  Colonel  Yeatman-Biggs  made  from  the 
German  of  Victor  Bluthgen.  Julie  had  been  greatly  amused 
by  the  tale,  but,  finding  that  it  ended  in  a  vague  and  unsat- 
isfactory way,  she  could  not  be  contented,  so  took  up  her 
pen  and  wrote  a  finale,  her  chief  aim  being  to  provide  a 
happy  ending  for  the  old  farm-dog,  Flaps  himself,  after  whom 
she  named  her  sequel.  The  writing  is  so  exactly  similar  to 
that  of  "  The  Hens,"  that  the  two  portions  can  scarcely  be 
identified  as  belonging  to  different  writers.  Julie  used  often 
to  reproach  me  for  indulging  in  what  John  Wesley  called 
"  the  lust  of  finishing,"  but  in  matters  concerning  her  own 
art  she  was  as  great  an  offender  on  this  score  as  any  one  else. 
Her  inability  to  leave  the  farm-yard  question  undecided  re- 
minds me  of  the  way  in  which  Dr.  Hullah's  pupils  at  the  Char- 
terhouse used  to  tease  him  when  they  were  finishing  their 
music-lessons,  by  ending  off  the  piece  they  had  practised  on 
the  chord  of  the  dominant  seventh,  and  then  banging,  boy- 
like, out  of  the  room,  but  waiting  outside  to  listen  to  the  Doc- 
tor as  he  quickly  advanced  to  the  piano,  while  the  notes  were 
still  vibrating,  and  gently  resolved  the  chord  into  the  tonic. 

Julie  gave  a  set  of  verses  on  "  Canada  Home  "  to  the 
same  number  as  "  Flaps,"  and  to  the  March  (1879)  number 
she  gave  some  other  verses  on  "  Garden  Lore."  In  April, 
the  second  part  of  "  We  and  the  World  "  began  to  appear, 
and  a  fresh  character  was  introduced,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
important  and  touching  features  of  the  tale.  Biddy  Macart- 
ney is  a  real  old  Irish  melody  in  herself,  with  her  body  tied 
to  a  coffee-barrow  in  the  Liverpool  docks,  and  her  mind 

5 


66  "  WE   AND   THE   WORLD." 

ever  wandering  in  search  of  the  son  who  had  run  away  to 
sea.  Jack,  the  English  hero,  comes  across  Biddy  in  the 
docks  just  before  he  starts  as  a  stowaway  for  America,  and 
his  stiff,  crude  replies  to  her  voluble  outpourings  are  essen- 
tially British  and  boy-like  :  — 

"  You  hope  Micky  '11  come  back,  I  suppose  ? " 

"Why  wouldn't  I,  acushla?  Sure,  it  was  by  reason  o'  that  I 
got  bothered  with  the  washin'  after  me  poor  boy  left  me,  from 
my  mind  being  continually  in  the  clocks  instead  of  with  the 
clothes.  And  there  I  would  be  at  the  end  of  the  week,  with 
the  captain's  jerseys  gone  to  old  Miss  Harding,  and  his  wash- 
ing no  corricter  than  hers,  though  he  'd  more  good-nature  in  him 
over  the  accidents,  and  iron-moulds  on  the  table-cloths,  and 
pocket-handkerchers  missin',  and  me  ruined  intirely  with  mak- 
ing them  good,  and  no  thanks  for  it,  till  a  good-natured  sowl  of 
a  foreigner  that  kept  a  pie-shop  larned  me  to  make  the  coffee, 
and  lint  me  the  money  to  buy  a  barra,  and  he  says,  '  Go  as  con- 
vanient  to  the  ships  as  ye  can,  mother :  it  '11  ease  your  mind. 
My  own  heart,'  says  he,  laying  his  hand  to  it,  'knows  what  it  is 
to  have  my  body  here,  and  the  whole  sowl  of  me  far  away.'" 

"  Did  you  pay  him  back  ?  "  I  asked.  I  spoke  without  thinking, 
and  still  less  did  I  mean  to  be  rude  ;  but  it  had  suddenly  struck 
me  that  I  was  young  and  hearty,  and  that  it  would  be  almost  a 
duty  to  share  the  contents  of  my  leather  bag  with  this  poor  old 
woman,  if  there  were  no  chance  of  her  being  able  to  repay  the 
generous  foreigner. 

"Did  I  pay  him  back?"  she  screamed.  "Would  I  be  the 
black-hearted  thief  to  him  that  was  kind  to  me  ?  Sorra  bit  nor  sup 
but  dry  bread  and  water  passed  me  lips  till  he  had  his  own  again, 
and  the  heart's  blessings  of  owld  Biddy  Macartney  along  with  it." 

I  made  my  peace  with  old  Biddy  as  well  as  I  could,  and  turned 
the  conversation  back  to  her  son. 

"  So  you  live  in  the  docks  with  your  coffee-barrow,  mother,  that 
you  may  be  sure  not  to  miss  Micky  when  he  comes  ashore  ?  " 


"WE   AND   THE   WORLD."  67 

"  I  do,  darlin'.  Fourteen  years  all  but  three  days  !  He  '11  be 
gone  fifteen  if  we  all  live  till  Wednesday  week." 

"Fifteen?  But,  mother,  if  he  were  like  me  when  he  went,  he 
can't  be  very  like  me  now.  He  must  be  a  middle-aged  man. 
Do  you  think  you  'd  know  him  ?" 

This  question  was  more  unfortunate  than  the  other,  and 
produced  such  howling  and  weeping,  and  beating  of  Biddy's 
knees  as  she  rocked  herself  among  the  beans,  that  I  should 
have  thought  every  soul  in  the  docks  would  have  crowded 
round  us.  But  no  one  took  any  notice,  and  by  degrees  I  calmed 
her,  chiefly  by  the  assertion,  "He'll  know  you,  mother,  any 
how." 

"He  will  so,  God  bless  him!"  said  she.  "And  haven't  I 
gone  over  it  all  in  me  own  mind,  often  and  often,  when  I  'd  see 
the  vessels  feelin'  their  way  home  through  the  darkness,  and  the 
coffee  staymin'  enough  to  cheer  your  heart  wid  the  smell  of  it, 
and  the  least  taste  in  life  of  something  betther  in  the  stone  bottle 
under  me  petticoats.  And  then  the  big  ship  would  be  coming  in 
with  her  lights  at  the  head  of  her,  and  myself  would  be  sitting 
alone  with  me  patience,  God  helping  me,  and  one  and  another 
strange  face  going  by.  And  then  he  comes  along,  cold  may  be, 
and  smells  the  coffee.  '  Bedad,  but  that 's  a  fine  smell  with  it,' 
says  he,  for  Micky  was  mighty  particular  in  his  aitin'  and 
drinkin'.  '  I  '11  take  a  dhrop  of  that,'  says  he,  not  noticing  me 
particular,  and  if  ever  I  'd  the  saycret  of  a  good  cup  he  gets  it, 
me  consayling  me  face.  '  What  will  it  be  ? '  says  he,  setting 
down  the  mug.  '  What  would  it  be,  Micky,  from  your  mother?' 
says  I,  and  I  lifts  me  head.  Arrah,  but  then  there  's  the  heart's 
deiight  between  us.  'Mother!'  says  he.  'Micky!'  says  \- 
And  he  lifts  his  foot  and  kicks  over  the  barra,  and  dances  m : 
round  in  his  arms.  '  Ochone  ! '  says  the  spictators  ;  'there's 
the  fine  coffee  that's  running  into  the  dock.'  'Let  it  run,'  says 
I,  in  the  joy  of  me  heart,  '  and  you  after  it,  and  the  barra  on  the 
top  of  ye,  now  Micky  me  son  's  come  home  ! '  " 

"Wonderfully  jolly!"  said  I.  "And  it  must  be  pleasant 
even  to  think  of  it." 


68  "WE   AND   THE   WORLD." 

There  is  another  new  character  in  the  second  part  of  "  We,' 
who  is  also  a  fine  picture,  —  Alister  the  blue-eyed  Scotch 
lad,  with  his  respect  for  "  book  learning,"  and  his  powers  of 
self-denial  and  endurance ;  but  Julie  certainly  had  a  weak- 
ness for  the  Irish  nation,  and  the  tender  grace  with  which 
she  touches  Dennis  O'Moore  and  Biddy  shines  conspicuously 
throughout  the  story.  In  one  scene,  however,  I  think  she 
brings  up  her  Scotch  hero  neck-and-neck,  if  not  ahead  of 
her  favorite  Irishman. 

This  is  in  Chapter  VII.,  where  an  entertainment  is  being 
held  on  board  ship,  and  Dennis  and  Alister  are  called  upon 
in  turn  to  amuse  the  company  with  a  song.  Dennis  gets 
through  his  ordeal  well ;  he  has  a  beautiful  voice,  which 
makes  him  independent  of  the  accompaniment  of  a  fiddle 
(the  only  musical  instrument  on  board),  and  Julie  describes 
his  simfiatico  rendering  of  "  Bendemeer's  Stream  "  from  the 
way  in  which  she  loved  to  hear  one  of  our  brothers  sing  it. 
He  had  learned  it  by  ear  on  board  ship  from  a  fellow-pas- 
senger, and  she  was  never  tired  of  listening  to  the  melody. 
When  this  same  brother  came  to  visit  her  while  she  was  ill  at 
Bath,  and  sang  to  her  as  she  lay  in  bed,  "Bendemeer's 
Stream  "  was  the  one  strain  she  asked  for,  and  the  last  she 
heard. 

Dennis  O'Moore's  performance  met  with  warm  applause, 
and  then  the  boatswain,  who  had  a  grudge  against  Alister, 
because  the  Scotch  captain  treated  his  countryman  with  leni- 
ency, taunted  the  shy  and  taciturn  lad  to  "  contribute  to  the 
general  entertainment." 

I  was  very  sorry  for  Alister,  and  so  was  Dennis,  I  am  sure, 
for  he  did  his  best  to  encourage  him. 

"  Sing  '  God  Save  the  Queen,'  and  I  '11  keep  well  after  ye  with 
the  fiddle,"  he  suggested.     But  Alister  shook  his  head.     "I 


"  WE  AND  THE  WORLD."  69 

know  one  or  two  Scotch  tunes,"  Dennis  added,  and  he  began  to 
sketch  out  an  air  or  two  with  his  fingers  on  the  strings. 

Presently  Alister  stopped  him.  "Yon's  the  Land  o'  the 
Leal?" 

"  It  is,"  said  Dennis. 

"  Play  it  a  bit  quicker,  man,  and  I'll  try  '  Scots,  wha  hae.'  " 

Dennis  quickened  at  once,  and  Alister  stood  forward.  He 
neither  fidgeted  nor  complained  of  feeling  shy,  but,  as  my  eyes 
(I  was  squatted  cross-legged  on  the  deck)  were  at  the  level  of 
his  knees,  I  could  see  them  shaking,  and  pitied  him  none  the 
less  that  I  was  doubtful  as  to  what  might  not  be  before  me. 
Dennis  had  to  make  two  or  three  false  starts  before  poor  Alister 
could  get  a  note  out  of  his  throat ;  but  when  he  had  fairly  broken 
the  ice  with  the  word  "Scots!"  he  faltered  no  more.  The 
boatswain  was  cheated  a  second  time  of  his  malice.  Alister 
could  nothing  in  the  least  like  Dennis,  but  he  had  a  strong 
manly  voice,  and  it  had  a  ring  that  stirred  one's  blood,  as  he 
clenched  his  hands  and  rolled  his  r's  to  the  rugged  appeal :  — 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victory  ! 

Applause  did  n't  seem  to  steady  his  legs  in  the  least,  and  he 
never  moved  his  eyes  from  the  sea,  and  his  face  only  grew 
whiter  by  the  time  he  drove  all  the  blood  to  my  heart  with  — 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

"  God  forbid  !  "  cried  Dennis,  impetuously.  "  Sing  that  verse 
again,  me  boy,  and  give  us  a  chance  to  sing  with  ye  !  "  which 
we  did  accordingly ;  but  as  Alister  and  Dennis  were  rolling  r's 
like  the  rattle  of  musketry  on  the  word  turn,  Alister  did  turn,  and 
stopped  suddenly  short.    The  captain  had  come  up  unobserved. 


70  "WE   AND   THE  WORLD. 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  he,  waving  us  back  to  our  places. 

By  this  time  the  solo  had  become  a  chorus.  Beautifully  un- 
conscious, for  the  most  part,  that  the  song  was  by  way  of  stirring 
Scot  against  Saxon,  its  deeper  patriotism  had  seized  upon  us  all. 
Englishmen,  Scotchmen,  and  sons  of  Erin,  we  all  shouted  at  the 
top  of  our  voices,  Sambo's  fiddle  not  being  silent.  And  I  main- 
tain that  we  all  felt  the  sentiment  with  our  whole  hearts,  though 
I  doubt  if  any  but  Alister  and  the  captain  knew  and  sang  the 
precise  words :  — 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa'  ? 
Let  him  on  wi'  me  ! 

The  description  of  Alister's  song,  as  well  as  that  of  Dennis, 
was  to  some  extent  drawn  from  life,  Julie  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  hear  "  Scots,  wha  hae  "  rendered  by  a  Scot  with 
more  soul  than  voice,  who  always  "  moved  the  hearts  of  the 
people  as  one  man  "  by  his  patriotic  fire. 

My  sister  was  greatly  aided  by  two  friends  in  her  descrip- 
tions of  the  scenery  in  "  We,"  such  as  the  vivid  account  of 
Bermuda  and  the  waterspout  in  Chapter  XL,  and  that  of  the 
fire  at  Demerara  in  Chapter  XII.,  and  she  owed  to  the  same 
kind  helpers  also  the  accuracy  of  her  nautical  phrases  and 
her  Irish  dialect.  Certainly  this  second  part  of  the  tale  is 
full  of  interest,  but  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  the  materials 
had  been  made  into  two  books  instead  of  one.  There  are 
more  than  enough  characters  and  incidents  to  have  developed 
into  a  couple  of  tales. 

Julie  has  often  said  how  strange  it  seemed  to  her,  when 
people  who  had  a  ready  pen  for  writing  consulted  her  as  to 
what  they  should  write  about !  She  suffered  so  much  from 
over-abundance  of  ideas  which  she  had  not  the  physical 
strength  to  put  on  paper. 


A   STUDY   FROM   LIFE.  7 1 

Even  when  she  was  very  ill,  and  unable  to  use  her  hands 
at  all,  the  sight  of  a  lot  of  good  German  woodcuts,  which 
were  sent  to  me  at  Bath,  suggested  so  many  fresh  ideas  to 
her  brain,  that  she  only  longed  to  be  able  to  seize  her  pen 
and  write  tales  to  the  pictures. 

Before  we  turn  finally  away  from  the  subject  of  her  liking 
for  Irish  people,  I  must  mention  a  little  adventure  which 
happened  to  her  at  Fulford. 

There  is  one  parish  in  York  where  a  great  number  of  Irish 
peasants  live,  and  many  of  the  women  used  to  pass  Julie's 
windows  daily,  going  out  to  work  in  the  fields  at  Fulford. 
She  liked  to  watch  them  trudging  by,  with  large  baskets 
perched  picturesquely  on  the  tops  of  their  heads  ;  but  in 
the  town  the  "  Irishers  "  are  not  viewed  with  equal  favor  by 
the  inhabitants.  One  afternoon  Julie  was  out  sketching  in  a 
field,  and  came  across  one  of  these  poor  Irish  women.  My 
sister's  mind  at  the  time  was  full  of  Biddy  Macartney,  and 
she  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of  having  a  chat  with 
this  suggestive  "study  "  for  the  character.  She  found  an  ex- 
cuse for  addressing  the  old  woman  about  some  cattle  who 
seemed  restless  in  the  field,  but  quickly  discovered,  to  her 
amusement,  that  when  she  alluded  to  Ireland,  her  companion, 
in  the  broadest  brogue,  stoutly  denied  having  any  connection 
with  the  country.  No  doubt  she  thought  Julie's  prejudices 
would  be  similar  to  those  of  her  town  neighbors,  but  in  a 
short  time  some  allusion  was  inadvertently  made  to  "  me  fa- 
ther's farm  in  Kerry,"  and  the  truth  leaked  out.  After  this  they 
became  more  confidential ;  and  when  Julie  admired  some 
quaint  silver  rings  on  her  compan ion's  finger,  the  old  woman 
was  most,  anxious  to^give  her  one,  and  was  only  restrained  by 
coming  to  the  decision  that  she  would  give  her  a  recipe  for 
"real  Irish  whiskey"  instead.     She  began  with  "You  must 


J2  FAITHFUL   WARRIORS. 

take  some  barley  and  put  it  in  a  poke  — "  but  after  this 
Julie  heard  no  more,  for  she  was  distracted  by  the  cattle,  who 
had  advanced  unpleasantly  near ;  the  Irish  woman,  however, 
continued  her  instructions  to  the  end,  waving  her  arms  to  keep 
the  beasts  off,  which  she  so  far  succeeded  in  doing,  that 
Julie  caught  the  last  sentence,  — 

"  And  then  ye  must  bury  it  in  a  bog." 

"Is  that  to  give  it  a  peaty  flavor?"  asked  my  sister, 
innocently. 

"  Oh,  no,  me  dear  !  —  it 's  because  of  the  exciseman? 

When  they  parted,  the  old  woman's  original  reserve  en- 
tirely gave  way,  and  she  cried,  "  Good  luck  to  ye  !  and  go  to 
Ireland!11 

Julie  remained  in  England  for  some  months  after  Major 
Ewing  started  for  Malta,  as  he  was  despatched  on  very  short 
notice,  and  she  had  to  pack  up  their  goods ;  also  —  as  she 
was  not  strong  —  it  was  decided  that  she  should  avoid  going 
out  for  the  hot  summer  weather,  and  wait  for  the  healthier 
autumn  season.  Her  time,  therefore,  was  now  chiefly  spent 
among  civilian  friends  and  relations,  and  I  waut  this  fact  to 
be  specially  noticed  in  connection  with  the  next  contribu- 
tions that  she  wrote  for  the  Magazine. 

In  February,  1879,  the  terrible  news  had  come  of  the 
Isandlwana  massacre,  and  this  was  followed  in  June  by  that 
of  the  Prince  Imperial's  death.  My  sister  was,  of  course, 
deeply  engrossed  in  the  war  tidings,  as  many  of  her  friends 
went  out  to  South  Africa  —  some  to  return  no  more.  In  July 
she  contributed  "A  Soldier's  Children  "  to  "  Aunt  Judy,"  and 
of  all  her  Child  Verses  this  must  be  reckoned  the  best,  every 
line  from  first  to  last  breathing  how  strong  her  sympathies 
still  were  for  military  men  and  things,  though  she  was  no 
longer  living  among  them  :  — 


"JACKANAPES."  73 

"  Our  home  used  to  be  in  the  dear  old  camp,  with  lots  of 
bands,  and  trumpets,  and  bugles,  and  dead-marches,  and 
three  times  a  day  there  was  a  gun, 

"But  now  we  live  in  View  Villa,  at  the  top  of  the  village, 
and  it  is  n't  nearly  such  fun." 

The  humor  and  pathos  in  the  lines  are  so  closely  mixed, 
it  is  very  difficult  to  read  them  aloud  without  tears  ;  but  they 
have  been  recited  —  as  Julie  was  much  pleased  to  know — by 
the  "  old  Father "  of  the  "  Queer  Fellows,"  to  whom  the 
verses  were  dedicated,  when  he  was  on  a  troop-ship  going 
abroad  for  active  service,  and  they  were  received  with  warm 
approbation  by  his  hearers.  He  read  them  on  other  occa- 
sions, also  in  public,  with  equal  success. 

The  crowning  military  work,  however,  which  Julie  did  this 
year  was  "Jackanapes."  This  she  wrote  for  the  October 
number  of  "  Aunt  Judy  ;  "  and  here  let  me  state  that  I  believe 
if  she  had  still  been  living  at  Aldershot,  surrounded  by  the 
atmosphere  of  military  sympathies  and  views  of  honor,  the 
tale  would  never  have  been  written.  It  was  not  aimed,  as 
some  people  supposed,  personally  at  the  man  who  was  with 
the  Prince  Imperial  when  he  met  his  death.  Julie  would 
never  have  sat  in  judgment  on  him,  even  before  he,  too, 
joined  the  rank  of  those  dead,  about  whom  no  evil  may  be 
spoken.  It  was  hearing  this  same  man's  conduct  discussed 
by  civilians  from  the  standard  of  honor  which  is  unhappily 
so  different  in  civil  and  military  circles,  and  more  especially 
the  discussion  of  it  among  "business  men,"  where  the  rule 
of  "each  man  for  himself"  is  invariable,  which  drove  Julie 
into  uttering  the  protest  of  "Jackanapes."  I  believe  what 
she  longed  to  show  forth  was  how  the  life  of  an  army  —  as 
of  any  other  body  —  depends  on  whether  the  individuality  of 
its  members  is  dead;  a  paradox  which  may  perhaps  be  hard 


74  "  JACKANAPES." 

to  understand,  save  in  the  light  of  His  teaching,  who  said 
that  the  saving  of  a  man's  life  lay  in  his  readiness  to  lose  it. 
The  merging  of  selfish  interests  into  a  common  cause  is  what 
makes  it  strong ;  and  it  is  from  Satan  alone  we  get  the  axiom, 
"  Skin  for  skin,  yea,  all  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  his 
life."  Of  "Jackanapes"  itself  I  need  not  speak..  It  has 
made  Julie's  name  famous,  and  deservedly  so,  for  it  not  only 
contains  her  highest  teaching,  but  is  her  best  piece  of  literary 
art. 

There  are  a  few  facts  connected  with  the  story  which,  I 
think,  will  be  interesting  to  some  of  its  admirers.  My  sister 
was  in  London  in  June,  1879,  and  then  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Randolph  Caldecott,  for  whose  illustrations  to 
Washington  Irving's  "  Bracebridge  Hall,"  and  "  Old  Christ- 
mas "  she  had  an  unbounded  admiration,  as  well  as  for  his 
Toy  Books.  This  introduction  led  us  to  ask  him,  when 
"Jackanapes  "  was  still  simmering  in  Julie's  brain,  if  he  would 
supply  a  colored  illustration  for  it.  But  as  the  tale  was  only 
written  a  very  short  time  before  it  appeared,  and  as  the  illus- 
tration was  wanted  early,  because  colors  take  long  to  print, 
Julie  could  not  send  the  story  to  be  read,  but  asked  Mr. 
Caldecott  to  draw  her  a  picture  to  fit  one  of  the  scenes  in  it. 
The  one  she  suggested  was  a  "  fair-haired  boy  on  a  red-haired 
pony,"  having  noticed  the  artistic  effect  produced  by  this 
combination  in  one  of  her  own  nephews,  a  skilful  seven-year- 
old  rider  who  was  accustomed  to  follow  the  hounds. 

This  colored  illustration  was  given  in  "  Aunt  Judy's  Maga- 
zine "  with  the  tale,  but  when  it  was  republished  as  a  book,  in 
1883,  the  scene  was  reproduced  on  a  smaller  scale  in  black 
and  white  only. 

"  Jackanapes  "  was  much  praised  when  it  came  out  in  the 
Magazine,  but  it  was  not  until  it  had  been  re-issued  as  a 


LITERARY   COMPOSITION.  75 

book  that  it  became  really  well  known.  Even  then  its  suc- 
cess was  within  a  hair's-breadth  of  failing.  The  first  copies 
were  brought  out  in  dull  stone-colored  paper  covers,  and 
that  powerful  vehicle  "  the  Trade,"  unable  to  believe  that  a 
jewel  could  be  concealed  in  so  plain  a  casket,  refused  the 
work  of  J.  H.  E.  and  R.  C.  until  they  had  stretched  the  paper 
cover  on  boards,  and  colored  the  Union  Jack  which  adorns 
it.  No  doubt  "  the  Trade  "  understands  its  fickle  child  "  the 
Public  "  better  than  either  authors  or  artists  do,  and  knows 
by  experience  that  it  requires  tempting  with  what  is  pretty  to 
look  at,  before  it  will  taste.  Certainly,  if  praise  from  the 
public  were  the  chief  aim  that  writers,  or  any  other  workers, 
strove  after,  their  lives  for  the  most  part  would  consist  of 
disappointment  only,  so  seldom  is  "  success  "  granted  while 
the  power  to  enjoy  it  is  present.  They  alone  whose  aims  are 
pointed  above  earthly  praise  can  stand  unmoved  amid  ne- 
glect or  blame,  filled  with  that  peace  of  a  good  conscience 
which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 

I  have  spoken  of  "  Jackanapes  "  as  being  my  sister's  best 
literary  work,  and  will,  therefore,  here  introduce  some  valuable 
notes  which  she  communicated  to  my  youngest  brother  on 
her  method  of  working,  as  I  feel  sure  they  will  be  interesting, 
and  may  be  useful  to  other  authors  :  — 

"  Some  years  ago  I  had  several  conversations  with  my  sister, 
Mrs.  Ewing,  on  the  subject  of  literary  composition,  with  special 
reference  to  that  art  as  it  ought  to  be  employed  in  works  of  fic- 
tion, such  as  she  herself  produced.  I,  fortunately,  at  the  time 
made  a  few  notes  of  her  remarks,  and  which  may  now  be  of  inter- 
est, as  elucidating  in  some  measure  the  manner  of  construction 
employed  in  the  works  which  she  has  bequeathed  to  the  world. 
Referring  generally  to  the  subject  of  construction,  she  told  me 
that  she  had  been  greatly  indebted  for  her  own  education  in  such 


76  LAWS   OF   PRINCIPALITY, 


matters  to  the  latter  part  of  the  third  Letter  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
'Elements  of  Drawing,'  where  the  first  principles  of  this  great 
question  are  touched  upon,  in  their  application  to  music,  poetry, 
and  painting.  It  is  unnecessary  to  reproduce  here  the  masterly 
analyses  of  the  laws  of  Principality,  Repetition,  Continuity, 
Contrast,  Harmony,  etc.,  which  are  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
work.  It  is  sufficient  only  to  note  that  Mrs.  Ewing  felt  keenly 
that  they  were  equally  essential  to  the  art  of  writing  as  to  that 
of  painting  ;  and  she  held  that  the  great  mass  of  English  fiction 
does  not  fail  to  interest  us  so  much  for  lack  of  stories  to  be  told, 
as  from  the  want  of  an  artistic  way  of  telling  them.  She  re- 
marked that  the  English  writers  are  strangely  behind  the  French 
in  this  particular,  and  that,  however  feeble  the  incidents  in  a 
French  work  of  fiction  often  are,  the  constructive  power  is  com- 
monly of  a  high  order. 

"  It  may  be  of  interest  to  consider  for  a  moment  how  the  laws 
of  construction  just  spoken  of  can  be  traced  in  one  of  Mrs. 
Ewing's  stories.  For  example,  in  the  story  of  'Jackanapes'  the 
law  of  Principality  is  very  clearly  demonstrated.  'Jackanapes' 
is  the  one  important  figure.  The  doting  aunt,  the  weak-kneed 
but  faithful  Tony  Johnson,  the  irascible  general,  the  punctilious 
postman,  the  loyal  boy-trumpeter,  the  silent  major,  and  the  ever- 
dear,  faithful,  loving  Lollo,  —  all  and  each  of  them  conspire  with 
qpe  consent  to  reflect  forth  the  glory  and  beauty  of  the  noble, 
generous,  recklessly  brave,  and  gently  tender  spirit  of  the  hero 
'Jackanapes.'  What  aunt  could  fail  to  dote  on  such  a  boy 
What  friend  could  resist  making  a  hero  of  such  an  inspiring  ex- 
ample ?  What  old  general  could  be  proof  against  the  brave, 
dashing  gallantry  of  such  a  lad  ?  What  old  soldier  could  help 
but  be  proud  of  such  a  cadet  ?  What  village  lad  save  himself 
from  the  irresistible  influence  of  leaving  his  father's  plough 
and  following  Jackanapes  to  the  field  of  honor  ?  What  brother- 
officer,  however  seared  with  sorrow,  and  made  taciturn  by  trial, 
could  hold  that  dying  hand,  and  not  weep  for  him  who  begged 
for  the  grace  of  Christ  and  the  love  of  God  as  he  passed  away  ? 


REPETITION,   AND   CONTRAST.  TJ 

And  Lollo,  the  faithful  Lollo,  who  does  not  feel  that  all  the  sun- 
light which  pours  upon  his  ruddy  coat  is  reflected  from  the  joy 
of  that  dear  boy's  first  gallop  upon  his  back  ? 

"  This  is  indeed  a  very  striking  example  of  the  law  of  Princi- 
pality. All  these  life-like  figures  group  around  Jackanapes  in 
subordinate  positions,  and  in  all  they  say,  and  do,  and  feel,  they 
conspire  to  increase  his  pre-eminence. 

"  The  law  of  Repetition  may  also  be  very  clearly  traced  in  the 
same  story.  Again  and  again  is  the  village  green  introduced  to 
the  imagination.  It  is  a  picture  of  eternal  peace  and  quietness, 
amid  the  tragedies  of  our  ever-changing  life  which  are  enacted 
around  it.  Mr.  Ruskin  remarks  that  Turner  chiefly  used  the 
law  of  Repetition  in  his  pictures  where  he  wished  to  obtain  an 
expression  of  repose.  '  In  general,'  he  says,  '  throughout  Na- 
ture, reflection  and  repetition  are  peaceful  things.' 

"Another  law  which  is  very  forcibly  introduced  into  'Jacka- 
napes '  is  the  law  of  Contrast.  The  peace  of  Nature  upon  the 
village  green,  as  I  have  just  remarked,  is  sharply  contrasted  with 
the  changes  and  chances  in  the  human  life  around  it.  The 
idiotic  gabblings  of  the  goose  are  compared  with  the  cowardly 
doctrines  of  the  peace-at-any-price  politician.  The  embryo  gal- 
lant, with  his  clear  blue  eyes  and  mop  of  yellow  curls,  is  placed 
vis-h-vis  with  the  wounded  hero  of  many  battles,  the  victim  of 
a  glass  eye  and  an  artificial  toilet.  That  '  yellow  thing,'  the 
captain's  child,  starts  in  pursuit  of  the  '  other  yellow  thing,'  the 
young  gosling. 

"These  points  will  be  of  interest  to  those  who  care  to  make 
themselves  acquainted  with  the  work  of  Mr.  Ruskin,  already  re- 
ferred to,  and  who  try  to  see  how  the  principles  there  laid  down 
were,  more  or  less,  applied  by  Mrs.  Evving  in  her  books. 

"  Among  her  general  axioms  for  the  construction  of  stories 
may  be  mentioned  the  following.  She  thought  it  was  best  to 
fix  first  the  entire  plot  of  the  whole  story,  as  this  helps  the 
writer  to  determine  the  relative  value  of  persons,  places,  inci- 
dents, etc.,  in  the  general  idea.     She  considered,  also,  that  at 


78  CONSTRUCTION   OF   STORIES. 

tli is  stage  the  whole  dramatis  persona  should  be  settled  upon 
and  arranged  into  classes,  those  for  the  foreground,  those  for  the 
middle  distance,  and  those  for  the  background.  Another  of 
her  axioms  was  that  no  single  word  of  conversation  should 
ever  be  introduced  which  did  not  plainly  (i)  either  develop 
the  character  speaking,  or  (2)  forward  the  plot.  She  thought 
it  well,  too,  to  have  a  clear  understanding  of  the  amount  to 
be  ultimately  written,  and  determine  how  much  for  each  chap- 
ter,—  and,  indeed,  for  each  phrase  in  the  chapter. 

"  With  regard  to  the  introduction  of  passion  into  stories,  she 
remarked  that  it  was  most  necessary,  but  that  human  feelings 
are  elastic,  and  are  soon  07/^r-strained,  and  that  this  kind  of 
ammunition  should  be  sparingly  fired,  with  intervals  of  refresh- 
ment. 

"  She  was  very  careful  to  recommend  the  study  of  types  of 
sentences  and  idioms,  which  give  force  and  beauty,  from  the 
placing  and  repetition  of  words,  etc.  One  of  the  most  important 
doctrines  she  held,  and  in  an  extraordinary  manner  carried  out, 
was,  that  if  a  writer  could  express  himself  clearly  in  one  word 
he  was  not  to  use  two." 


PART  IV. 

I  shall  know  by  the  gleam  and  glitter 

Of  the  golden  chain  you  wear, 
By  your  heart's  calm  strength  in  loving, 

Of  the  fire  they  have  had  to  bear. 
Beat  on,  true  heart,  forever  ! 

Shine  bright,  strong  golden  chain  ! 
And  bless  the  cleansing  fire, 

And  the  furnace  of  living  pain  ! 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 

HOWARDS  the  end  of  October,  1879,  Julie  started 
for  Malta,  to  join  Major  Evving,  but  she  became  so 
very  ill  while  travelling  through  France  that  her 
youngest  sister,  and  her  friend,  Mrs.  R.  H.  Jelf  (from  whose 
house  in  Folkestone  she  had  started  on  her  journey),  followed 
her  to  Paris,  and  brought  her  back  to  England  as  soon  as  she 
could  be  moved. 

Julie  now  consulted  Sir  William  Jenner  about  her  health, 
and,  seeing  the  disastrous  effect  that  travelling  had  upon  her, 
he  totally  forbade  her  to  start  again  for  several  months,  until 
she  had  recovered  some  strength  and  was  better  able  to  bear 
fatigue.  This  verdict  was  a  heavy  blow  to  my  sister,  and  the 
next  four  years  were  ones  of  great  trial  and  discomfort  to  her. 
A  constant  succession  of  disappointed  hopes  and  frustrated 
plans,  which  were  difficult  even  for  Madam  Liberality  to 
bear  ! 

She  hoped  when  her  husband  came  home  on  leave  at 
Christmas,  1879,  that  she  should  be  able  to  return  with  him, 


80      I   WILL   HAVE   HOPES   THAT   CANNOT   FADE, 

but  she  was  still  unfit  to  go ;  and  then  she  planned  to  follow 
later  with  a  sister,  who  should  help  her  on  the  journey,  and 
be  rewarded  by  visiting  the  island  home  of  the  Knights,  but 
this  castle  also  fell  to  the  ground.  Meantime  Julie  was  suffer- 
ing great  inconvenience  from  the  fact  that  she  had  sent  all 
her  possessions  to  Malta  several  months  before,  keeping  only 
some  light  luggage  which  she  could  take  with  her.  Among 
other  things  from  which  she  was  thus  parted,  was  the  last 
chapter  of  "  We  and  the  World,"  which  she  had  written  (as 
she  often  did  the  endings  of  her  tales)  when  she  was  first 
arranging  the  plot.  This  final  scene  was  buried  in  a  box  of 
books,  and  could  not  be  found  when  wanted,  so  had  to  be 
re-written ;  and  then  my  sister's  ideas  seem  to  have  got  into 
a  fresh  channel,  for  she  brought  her  heroes  safely  back  to 
their  Yorkshire  home,  instead  of  dropping  the  curtain  on 
them  after  a  gallant  rescue  in  a  Cornish  mine,  as  she  origi- 
nally arranged.  Julie  hoped  against  hope,  as  time  went  on, 
that  she  should  become  stronger,  and  able  to  follow  her  Lares 
and  Penates,  so  she  would  not  have  them  sent  back  to  her, 
until  a  final  end  was  put  to  her  hopes  by  Major  Ewing  being 
sent  on  from  Malta  to  Ceylon,  and  in  the  climate  of  the  lat- 
ter place  the  doctors  declared  it  would  be  impossible  for  her 
to  live.  The  goods,  therefore,  were  now  sent  back  to  Eng- 
land, and  she  consoled  herself  under  the  bitter  trial  of  being 
parted  from  her  husband,  and  unable  to  share  the  enjoyment 
of  the  new  and  wonderful  scenes  with  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded, by  thankfulness  for  his  unusual  ability  as  a  vivid  and 
brilliant  letter  writer.  She  certainly  practised  both  in  days  of 
joy  and  sorrow  the  virtue  of  being  Icctus  sorte  med,  which  she 
afterwards  so  powerfully  taught  in  her  "  Story  of  a  Short  Life." 
I  never  knew  her  fail  to  find  happiness  wherever  she  was  placed, 
•md  good  in  whomever  she  came  across.     Whatever  her  cir- 


FOR   FLOWERS   THE  VALLEY  YIELDS.  8 1 

cumstances  might  be  they  always  yielded  to  her  causes  for 
thankfulness,  and  work  to  be  done  with  a  ready  and  hopeful 
heart.  That  "lamp  of  zeal,"  about  which  Margery  speaks 
in  "  Six  to  Sixteen,"  was  never  extinguished  in  Julie,  even 
after  youth  and  strength  were  no  longer  hers  :  — 

"  Like  most  other  conscientious  girls,  we  had  rules  and  regula- 
tions of  our  own  devising  ;  private  codes,  generally  kept  in  cipher 
for  our  own  personal  self-discipline,  and  laws  common  to  us 
both  for  the  employment  of  our  time  in  joint  duties,  —  lessons, 
parish  work,  and  so  forth. 

"  I  think  we  made  rather  too  many  rules,  and  that  we  re-made 
them  too  often.  I  make  fewer  now,  and  easier  ones,  and  let 
them  much  more  alone.  I  wonder  if  I  really  keep  them  better  ? 
But  if  not,  may  God,  I  pray  Him,  send  me  back  the  restless 
zeal,  the  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness,  which  He  gives 
us  in  early  youth  !  It  is  so  easy  to  become  more  thick-skinned 
in  conscience,  more  tolerant  of  evil,  more  hopeless  of  good, 
more  careful  of  one's  own  comfort  and  one's  own  property, 
more  self-satisfied  in  leaving  high  aims  and  great  deeds  to  en- 
thusiasts, and  then  to  believe  that  one  is  growing  older  and 
wiser.  And  yet  those  high  examples,  those  good  works,  those 
great  triumphs  over  evil  which  single  hands  effect  sometimes, 
we  are  all  grateful  for,  when  they  are  done,  whatever  we  may 
have  said  of  the  doing.  But  we  speak  of  saints  and  enthusiasts 
for  good,  as  if  some  special  gifts  were  made  to  them  in  middle 
age  which  are  withheld  from  other  men.  Is  it  not  rather  that 
some  few  souls  keep  alive  the  lamp  of  zeal  and  high  desire 
which  God  lights  for  most  of  us  while  life  is  young?" 

In  spite,  however,  of  my  sister's  contentment  with  her  lot, 
and  the  kindness  and  hospitality  shown  to  her  at  this  time 
by  relations  and  friends,  her  position  was  far  from  comfort- 
able ;  and  Madam  Liberality's  hospitable  soul  was  sorely 
tried  by  having  no  home  to  which  she  could  welcome  her 

6 


82  OLD   STANDARDS. 

friends,  while  her  fragile  body  battled  against  constantly 
moving  from  one  house  to  another  when  she  was  often  unfit 
to  do  anything  except  keep  quiet  and  at  rest.  She  was 
not  able  to  write  much,  and  during  1880  only  contributed 
two  poems  to  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine,"  —  "  Grandmother's 
Spring,"  and  "Touch  Him  if  You  Dare." 

To  the  following  volume  (1881)  she  again  was  only  able 
to  give  two  other  poems,  —  "  Blue  and  Red  :  or,  the  Discon- 
tented Lobster,"  and  "  The  Mill  Stream  ;  "  but  these  are 
both  much  longer  than  her  usual  "  Verses  for  Children ;  " 
and,  indeed,  are  better  suited  for  older  readers,  —  though  the 
former  was  such  a  favorite  with  a  three-year-old  son  of  one 
of  our  bishops  that  he  used  to  repeat  it  by  heart. 

In  November,  1881,  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine  "  passed  into 
the  hands  of  a  fresh  publisher,  and  a  new  series  was  begun, 
with  a  fresh  outside  cover  which  Mr.  Caldecott  designed  for 
it.  Julie  was  anxious  to  help  in  starting  the  new  series,  and 
she  wrote  "  Daddy  Darwin's  Dovecote  "  for  the  opening 
number.  All  the  scenery  of  this  is  drawn  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Ecclesfield,  where  she  had  lately  been  spending 
a  good  deal  of  her  time,  and  so  refreshed  her  memory  of  its 
local  coloring.  The  story  ranks  equal  to  "  Jackanapes  "  as  a 
work  of  literary  art,  though  it  is  an  idyl  of  peace  instead  of 
war,  and  perhaps,  therefore,  appeals  rather  less  deeply  to 
general  sympathies ;  but  I  fully  agree  with  a  noted  artist 
friend,  who,  when  writing  to  regret  my  sister's  death,  said, 
"  '  Jackanapes '  and  '  Daddy  Darwin '  I  have  never  been 
able  to  read  without  tears,  and  hope  I  never  may."  Daddy 
had  no  actual  existence,  though  his  outward  man  may  have 
been  drawn  from  types  of  a  race  of  "  old  standards,"  which 
is  fast  dying  out.  The  incident  of  the  theft  and  recovery  of 
the  pigeons  is  a  true  one,  and  happened  to  a  flock  at  the 


"THE   STORY   OF  A   SHORT   LIFE.  83 

old  Hall  farm  near  our  home,  which  also  once  possessed  a 
luxuriant  garden,  wherein  Phoebe  might  have  found  all  the 
requisites  for  her  Sunday  posy.  A  "  tea  "  for  the  workhouse 
children  used  to  be  Madam  Liberality's  annual  birthday 
feast ;  and  the  spot  where  the  gaffers  sat  and  watched  the 
"  new  graft  "  strolling  home  across  the  fields  was  so  faithfully 
described  by  Julie  from  her  favorite  Schroggs  Wood,  that, 
when  Mr.  Caldecott  reproduced  it  in  his  beautiful  illustra- 
tion, some  friends  who  were  well  acquainted  with  the  spot 
believed  that  he  had  been  to  Ecclesfield  to  paint  it. 

Julie's  health  became  somewhat  better  in  1882,  and  for 
this  volume  she  wrote  as  a  serial  tale  "  Laetus  Sorte  Mea ; 
or,  the  Story  of  a  Short  Life."  This  was  not  republished  as 
a  book  until  four  days  before  my  sister's  death,  and  it  has 
become  so  well  known  from  appearing  at  this  critical  time 
that  I  need  say  very  little  about  it.  A  curious  mistake,  how- 
ever, resulted  from  its  being  published  then,  which  was  that 
most  of  the  reviewers  spoke  of  it  as  being  the  last  work  that 
she  wrote,  and  commented  on  the  title  as  a  singularly  appro- 
priate one,  but  those  who  had  read  the  tale  in  the  Magazine 
were  aware  that  it  was  written  three  years  previously,  and 
that  the  second  name  was  put  before  the  first,  as  it  was 
feared  the  public  would  be  perplexed  by  a  Latin  title.  The 
only  part  of  the  book  that  my  sister  added  during  her  illness 
was  Leonard's  fifth  letter  in  Chapter  X.  This  she  dictated, 
because  she  could  not  write.  She  had  intended  to  give  Saint 
Martin's  history  when  the  story  came  out  in  the  Magazine, 
but  was  hindered  by  want  of  space,  as  her  materials  proved 
larger  than  she  expected.  Many  people  admire  Leonard's 
story  as  much  as  "Jackanapes,"  but  to  me  it  is  not  quite 
so  highly  finished  from  an  artistic  point  of  view.  I  think 
it  suffered  a  little  from  being  written  in  detachments  from 


84  PATIENCE   IN   SICKNESS. 

month  to  month.  It  is,  however  almost  hypercritical  to 
point  out  defects  ;  and  the  circumstances  of  Leonard's  life 
are  so  much  more  within  the  range  of  common  experiences 
than  those  of  "Jackanapes,"  it  is  probable  that  the  lesson  of 
the  Short  Life  during  which  a  Victoria  Cross  was  won  by  the 
joyful  endurance  of  inglorious  suffering,  may  be  more  helpful 
to  general  readers  than  that  of  the  other  brief  career,  in  which 
"  Jackanapes,"  after  "  one  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life," 
earned  his  crown  of  victory. 

On  one  of  Julie's  last  days  she  expressed  a  fear  to  her 
doctor  that  she  was  very  impatient,  under  her  pain,  and  he 
answered,  "  Indeed  you  are  not ;  I  think  you  deserve  a 
Victoria  Cross  for  the  way  in  which  you  bear  it."  This 
reply  touched  her  very  much,  for  she  knew  the  speaker  had 
not  read  Leonard's  story ;  and  we  used  to  hide  the  proof- 
sheets  of  it,  for  which  she  was  choosing  head-lines  to  the 
pages,  whenever  her  doctors  came  into  the  room,  fearing 
that  they  would  disapprove  of  her  doing  any  mental  work. 

In  the  volume  of"  Aunt  Judy  "  for  1883  "A  Happy  Family  " 
appeared,  but  this  had  been  originally  written  for  an  American 
Magazine,  in  which  a  prize  was  offered  for  a  tale  not  exceed- 
ing nine  hundred  words  in  length.  Julie  did  not  gain  the 
prize,  and  her  story  was  rather  spoiled  by  having  to  be  too 
closely  condensed. 

She  also  wrote  three  poems  for  "  Aunt  Judy  "  in  1883,  "  The 
Poet  and  the  Brook,"  "  Mother's  Birthday  Review,"  and 
"  Convalescence."  The  last  one,  and  the  tale  of  "  Sun- 
flowers and  a  Rushlight "  (which  came  out  in  November, 
1883),  bear  some  traces  of  the  deep  sympathy  she  had 
learned  for  ill-health  through  her  own  sufferings  of  the  last 
few  years ;  the  same  may,  to  some  extent,  be  said  of  "  The 
Story  of  a  Short  Life."     "  Mother's  Birthday  Review  "  does 


AN   EARTHLY   PARADISE.  85 

not  come  under  this  heading,  though  I  well  remember  that 
part,  if  not  the  whole  of  it,  was  written  while  Julie  lay  in 
bed ;  and  I  was  despatched  by  her  on  messages  in  various 
directions  to  ascertain  what  really  became  of  Hampstead 
Heath  donkeys  during  the  winter,  and  the  name  of  the  flower 
that  clothes  some  parts  of  the  Heath  with  a  sheet  of  white  in 
summer. 

In  May,  1883,  Major  Ewing  returned  home  from  Ceylon, 
and  was  stationed  at  Taunton.  This  change  brought  back 
much  comfort  and  happiness  into  my  sister's  life.  She  once 
more  had  a  pretty  home  of  her  own,  and  not  only  a  home  but 
a  garden.  When  the  Ewings  took  their  house,  and  named 
it  Villa  Pone?ite,  from  its  aspect  towards  the  setting  sun,  the 
"  garden  "  was  a  potato  patch,  with  soil  chiefly  composed  of 
refuse  left  by  the  house  builders ;  but  my  sister  soon  began 
to  accumulate  flowers  in  the  borders,  especially  herbaceous 
ones  that  were  given  to  her  by  friends,  or  bought  by  her  in 
the  market.  Then,  in  1884,  she  wrote  "Mary's  Meadow," 
as  a  serial  for  "  Aunt  Judy's  Magazine,"  and  the  story  was  so 
popular  that  it  led  to  the  establishment  of  a  "  Parkinson 
Society  for  lovers  of  hardy  flowers."  Miss  Alice  Sargant 
was  the  founder  and  secretary  of  this,  and  to  her  my  sister 
owed  much  of  the  enjoyment  of  her  life  at  Taunton,  for 
the  Society  produced  many  friends  by  correspondence,  with 
whom  she  exchanged  plants  and  books,  and  the  "potato 
patch"  quickly  turned  into  a  well-stocked  flower-garden. 

Perhaps  the  friend  who  did  most  of  all  to  beautify  it  was 
the  Rev.  J.  Going,  who  not  only  gave  my  sister  many  roses, 
but  planted  them  round  the  walls  of  her  house  himself,  and 
pruned  them  afterwards,  calling  himself  her  "  head  gardener." 
She  did  not  live  long  enough  to  see  the  roses  sufficiently 
established  to  flower  thoroughly,  but  she  enjoyed  them  by 


86  "  LETTERS   FROM   A   LITTLE   GARDEN." 

anticipation,  and  they  served  to  keep  her  grave  bright  during 
the  summer  that  followed  her  death. 

Next  to  roses  I  think  the  flowers  that  Julie  had  most  of 
were  primulas  of  various  kinds,  owing  to  the  interest  that  was 
aroused  in  them  by  the  incident  in  "  Mary's  Meadow  "  of 
Christopher  finding  a  Hose-in-hose  cowslip  growing  wild  in 
the  said  "  meadow."  My  sister  was  specially  proud  of  a 
Hose-in-hose  cowslip  which  was  sent  to  her  by  a  little  boy  in 
Ireland,  who  had  determined  one  day  with  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  that  they  would  set  out  and  found  an  "  Earthly  Para- 
dise "  of  their  own,  and  he  began  by  actually  finding  a  Hose- 
in-hose,  so  named  it  after  "Christopher,"  and  sent  a  bit  of 
the  root  to  Mrs.  Ewing. 

The  last  literary  work  that  she  did  was  again  on  the  sub- 
ject of  flowers.  She  began  a  series  of  "  Letters  from  a  Little 
Garden  "  in  the  number  of  "  Aunt  Judy  "  for  November, 
1884,  and  these  were  continued  until  February,  1885.  The 
Letter  for  March  was  left  unfinished,  though  it  seemed,  when 
boxes  of  flowers  arrived  day  by  day  during  Julie's  illness 
from  distant  friends,  as  if  they  must  almost  have  intuitively 
known  the  purport  of  the  opening  injunction  in  her  unpub- 
lished epistle,  enjoining  liberality  in  the  practice  of  cutting 
flowers  for  decorative  purposes.  Her  room  for  three  months 
was  kept  so  continuously  bright  by  the  presence  of  these 
creations  of  God  which  she  loved  so  well :  — 

Dear  Little  Friend,  —  A  garden  of  hardy  flowers  is  pre- 
eminently a  garden  for  cut  flowers.  You  must  carefully  count 
this  among  its  merits,  because  if  a  constant  and  undimmed  blaze 
outside  were  the  one  virtue  of  a  flower-garden,  upholders  of  the 
bedding-out  system  would  now  and  then  have  the  advantage  of 
us.  For  my  own  part  I  am  prepared  to  say  that  I  want  my 
flowers  quite  as  much  for  the  house  as  the  garden,  and  so  I  sus- 


POSTHUMOUS   PUBLICATIONS.  87 

pect  do  most  women.     The  gardener's  point  of  view  is  not  quite 
the  same. 

Speaking  of  women,  and  recalling  Mr.  Charles  Warner's 
quaint  idea  of  all  his  "  Polly"  was  good  for  on  the  scene  of  his 
conflicts  with  Nature,  the  "  striped  bug  "  and  the  weed  "  Pusley," 
—  namely,  to  sit  on  an  inverted  flower-pot  and  "consult"  him 
while  he  was  hoeing,  —  it  is  interesting  to  notice  that  some  gen- 
erations ago  the  garden  was  very  emphatically  included  within 
woman's  "proper  sphere,"  which  was  not,  in  those  days,  a  wide 
one. 

The  "  Letters  "  were  the  last  things  that  my  sister  wrote  ;  but 
some  brief  papers  which  she  contributed  to  "  The  Child's 
Pictorial  Magazine "  were  not  published  until  after  her 
death.  In  the  May  number  "  Tiny's  Tricks  and  Toby's 
Tricks  "  came  out,  and  in  the  numbers  for  June,  July,  and 
August,  1885,  there  were  three  "Hoots"  from  "The  Owl 
in  the  Ivy  Bush;  or,  the  Children's  Bird  of  Wisdom." 
They  are  in  the  form  of  quaint  letters  of  advice,  and  my 
sister  adopted  the  "  Spectator's "  method  of  writing  as 
an  eye-witness  in  the  first  person,  so  far  as  was  possible  in 
addressing  a  very  youthful  class  of  readers.  She  had  a 
strong  admiration  for  many  of  both  Steele's  and  Addison's 
papers. 

The  list  that  I  promised  to  give  of  Julie's  published  stories 
is  now  completed ;  and,  if  her  works  are  to  be  valued  by 
their  length,  it  may  justly  be  said  that  she  has  not  left  a  vast 
amount  of  matter  behind  her;  but  I  think  that  those  who 
study  her  writings  carefully,  will  feel  that  some  of  their  great- 
est worth  lies  in  the  wonderful  condensation  and  high  finish 
that  they  display.  No  reviewer  has  made  a  more  apt  com- 
parison than  the  American  one  in  "  Every  Other  Saturday," 


88  UNFINISHED  WORK. 

who  spoke  of  "  Jackanapes  "  as  "  an  exquisite  bit  of  finished 
work,  —  a  Meissonier,  in  its  way." 

To  other  readers  the  chief  value  of  the  books  will  be  in 
the  high  purpose  of  their  teaching,  and  the  consciousness 
that  Julie  held  her  talent  as  a  direct  gift  from  God,  and  never 
used  it  otherwise  than  to  His  glory.     She  has  penned  noth- 
ing for  which  she  need  fear  reproach  from  her  favorite  old 
proverb,  "  A  wicked  book  is  all  the  wickeder  because  it  can 
never  repent."     It  is  difficult  for  those  who  admire  her  writ- 
ings to  help  regretting  that  her  life  was  cut  off  before  she  had 
accomplished  more,  but  to  still  such  regrets  we  cannot  do 
better  than  realize  (as  a  kind  friend  remarked)  "  how  much 
she  has   been  able    to  do,  rather  than  what   she  has  left 
undone."     The  work  which  she  did,  in  spite  of  her  physi- 
cal fragility,  far  exceeds  what  the  majority  of  us  perform 
with  stronger  bodies  and  longer  lives.     This  reflection  has 
comforted  me,  though  I  perhaps  know  more  than  others 
how  many  subjects  she  had  intended  to  write  stories  upon. 
Some  people  have  spoken  as  if  her  forte  lay  in  writing  about 
soldiers  only,  but  her  success  in  this  line  was  really  due  to 
her  having  spent  much  time  among  them.     I  am  sure  her 
imagination  and  sympathy  were  so  strong,  that  whatever  class 
of  men  she  was  mixed  with  she  could  not  help  throwing  her- 
self into  their  interests,  and  weaving  romances  about  them. 
Whether  such  romances  ever  got  on  to  paper  was  a  matter 
dependent  on  outward  circumstances  and  the  state  of  her 
health. 

One  of  the  unwritten  stories  which  I  most  regret  is  "  Grim 
the  Collier;  "  this  was  to  have  been  a  romance  of  the  Black 
Country  of  coal-mines,  in  which  she  was  born,  and  the  title 
was  chosen  from  the  description  of  a  flower  in  a  copy  of 
Gerarde's  "Herbal,"  given  to  her  by  Miss  Sargant :  — 


"  LITTLE   MOTHERS'   MEETINGS."  89 

"  Hieracium  hortense  latifolium,  sine  Pilosella  maior,  Golden 
Mouseeare,  or  Grim  the  Collinr.  The  floures  grow  at  the  top 
as  it  were  in  an  vmbel,  and  are  of  the  bignesse  of  the  ordinary 
Mouseeare,  and  of  an  orenge  colour.  The  seeds  are  round,  and 
blackish,  and  are  carried  away  with  the  downe  by  the  wind. 
The  stalks  and  cups  of  the  flours  are  all  set  thicke  with  a  black- 
ish downe,  or  hairinesse,  as  it  were  the  dust  of  coles  ;  whence 
the  women  who  keepe  it  in  gardens  for  novelties  sake,  have 
named  it  Grim  the  Colliar." 

I  wish,  too,  that  Julie  could  have  written  about  sailors,  as 
well  as  soldiers,  in  the  tale  of  "  Little  Mothers'  Meetings," 
which  had  been  suggested  to  her  mind  by  visits  to  Liverpool. 
The  sight  of  a  baby  patient  in  the  Children's  Hospital  there, 
who  had  been  paralyzed  and  made  speechless  by  fright,  but 
who  took  so  strange  a  fancy  to  my  sister's  sympathetic  face 
that  he  held  her  hand  and  coufd  scarcely  be  induced  to  re- 
lease it,  had  affected  her  deeply.  So  did  a  visit  that  she  paid 
one  Sunday  to  the  Seamen's  Orphanage,  where  she  heard  the 
voices  of  hundreds  of  fatherless  children  ascending  with  one 
accord  in  the  words,  "  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father," 
and  realized  the  Love  that  watched  over  them.  These  scenes 
were  both  to  have  been  woven  into  the  tale,  and  the  "  Little 
Mothers"  were  boy  nurses  of  baby  brothers  and  sisters. 

Another  phase  of  sailor  life  on  which  Julie  hoped  to  write 
was  the  "  Guild  of  Merchant  Adventurers  of  Bristol."  She 
had  visited  their  quaint  Hall,  and  collected  a  good  deal  of 
historical  information  and  local  coloring  for  the  tale,  and  its 
lesson  would  have  been  one  on  mercantile  honor. 

I  hope  I  have  kept  my  original  promise,  that  while  I  was 
making  a  list  of  Julie's  writings,  I  would  also  supply  an  outline 
biography  of  her  life ;  but  now,  if  the  children  wish  to  learn 


90  FORTUNE  AND   MISFORTUNE. 

something  of  her  at  its  end,  they  shall  be  told  in  her  own 
words  :  — 

"  Madam  Liberality  grew  up  into  much  the  same  sort  of  person 
that  she  was  when  a  child.  She  always  had  been  what  is 
termed  old-fashioned,  and  the  older  she  grew,  the  better  her 
old-fashionedness  became  her,  so  that  at  last  her  friends  would 
say  to  her,  'Ah,  if  we  all  wore  as  well  as  you  do,  my  dear! 
You've  hardly  changed  at  all  since  we  remember  you  in  short 
petticoats.'  So  far  as  she  did  change,  the  change  was  for  the 
better.  (It  is  to  be  hoped  we  do  improve  a  little  as  we  get 
older.)  She  was  still  liberal  and  economical.  She  still  planned 
and  hoped  indefatigably.  She  was  still  tender-hearted  in  the 
sense  in  which  Gray  speaks  :  — 

1  To  each  his  sufferings :  all  are  men 
Condemned  alike  to  groan. 
The  tender  for  another's  pain. 
The  unfeeling  for  his  own.' 

"  She  still  had  a  good  deal  of  ill-health  and  ill-luck,  and  a  good 
deal  of  pleasure  in  spite  of  both.  She  was  happy  in  the  happi- 
ness of  others,  and  pleased  by  their  praise.  But  she  was  less 
headstrong  and  opinionated  in  her  plans,  and  less  fretful  when 
they  failed.  It  is  possible,  after  one  has  cut  one's  wisdom-teeth, 
to  cure  oneself  even  of  a  good  deal  of  vanity,  and  to  learn  to  play 
the  second  fiddle  very  gracefully;  and  Madam  Liberality  did  not 
resist  the  lessons  of  life. 

"  God  teaches  us  wisdom  in  divers  ways.  Why  He  suffers 
some  people  to  have  so  many  troubles,  and  so  little  of  what  we 
call  pleasure  in  this  world,  we  cannot  in  this  world  know.  The 
heaviest  blows  often  fall  on  the  weakest  shoulders,  and  how 
these  endure  and  bear  up  under  them  is  another  of  the  things 
which  God  knows  better  than  we." 

Julie  did  absolutely  remain  "  the  same  "  during  the  three 
months  of  heavy  suffering  which,  in  God's  mysterious  love, 


BEGINNING   OF  THE   END.  91 

preceded  her  death.  Perhaps  it  is  well  for  us  all  to  know- 
that  she  found,  as  others  do,  the  intervals  of  exhausted  relief 
granted  between  attacks  of  pain  were  not  times  in  which  (had 
it  been  needed)  she  could  have  changed  her  whole  character, 
and,  what  is  called,  "  prepared  to  die."  Our  days  of  health 
and  strength  are  the  ones  in  which  this  preparation  must  be 
made  ;  but  for  those  who  live,  as  she  did,  with  their  whole 
talents  dedicated  to  God's  service,  death  is  only  the  gate  of 
life,  —  the  path  from  joyful  work  in  this  world  to  greater 
capacities  and  opportunities  for  it  in  the  other. 

I  trust  that  what  I  have  said  about  Julie's  religious  life  will 
not  lead  children  to  imagine  that  she  was  gloomy,  and  unable 
to  enjoy  her  existence  on  earth,  for  this  was  not  the  case. 
No  one  appreciated  and  rejoiced  in  the  pleasures  and  beau- 
ties of  the  world  more  thoroughly  than  she  did  :  no  one  could 
be  a  wittier  and  brighter  companion  than  she  always  was. 

Early  in  February,  1885,  she  was  found  to  be  suffering 
from  a  species  of  blood  poisoning,  and  as  no  cause  for  this 
could  then  be  discovered,  it  was  thought  that  change  of  air 
might  do  her  good,  and  she  was  taken  from  her  home  at 
Taunton  to  lodgings  at  Bath.  She  had  been  three  weeks  in 
bed  before  she  started,  and  was  obliged  to  return  to  it  two 
days  after  she  arrived,  and  there  to  remain  on  her  back  ;  but 
this  uncomfortable  position  did  not  alter  her  love  for  flowers 
and  animals. 

The  first  of  these  tastes  was  abundantly  gratified,  as  I  men- 
tioned before,  by  the  quantities  of  blossoms  which  were  sent 
her  from  friends  ;  as  well  as  by  the  weekly  nosegay  which 
came  from  her  own  Little  Garden,  and  made  her  realize 
that  the  year  was  advancing  from  winter  to  spring,  when 
crocuses  and  daffodils  were  succeeded  by  primroses  and 
anemones. 


92  MRS.   EWING'S    SENSE   OF   HUMOR. 

Of  living  creatures  she  saw  fewer.  The  only  object  she 
could  see  through  her  window  was  a  high  wall  covered  with 
ivy,  in  which  a  lot  of  sparrows  and  starlings  were  building 
their  nests.  As  the  sunlight  fell  on  the  leaves,  and  the  little 
birds  popped  in  and  out,  Julie  enjoyed  watching  them  at 
work,  and  declared  the  wall  looked  like  a  fine  Japanese 
picture.  She  made  us  keep  bread  crumbs  on  the  window- 
sill,  together  with  bits  of  cotton-wool  and  hair,  so  that  the 
birds  might  come  and  fetch  supplies  of  food,  and  materials 
for  their  nests. 

Her  appreciation  of  fun,  too,  remained  keen  as  ever,  and, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  one  of  the  very  few  books  which  she 
liked  to  have  read  aloud  was  Mark  Twain's  "  Adventures  of 
Huckleberry  Finn ;  "  the  dry  humor  of  it,  the  natural  way 
in  which  everything  is  told  from  a  boy's  point  of  view,  and 
the  vivid  and  beautiful  descriptions  of  river  scenery,  —  all 
charmed  her.  One  of  Twain's  shorter  tales,  "  Aurelia's  Un- 
fortunate Young  Man,"  was  also  read  to  her,  and  made  her 
laugh  so  much,  when  she  was  nearly  as  helpless  as  the 
"young  man"  himself,  that  we  had  to  desist  for  fear  of  doing 
her  harm.  Most  truly  may  it  be  said  that  between  each 
paroxysm  of  pain  "  her  little  white  face  and  undaunted  spirit 
bobbed  up  .  .  .  as  ready  and  hopeful  as  ever."  She  was  sel- 
dom able,  however,  to  concentrate  her  attention  on  solid 
works,  and  for  her  religious  exercises  chiefly  relied  on  what 
was  stored  in  her  memory. 

This  faculty  was  always  a  strong  one.  She  was  catechised 
in  church  with  the  village  children  when  only  four  years  old, 
and  when  six,  could  repeat  many  poems  from  an  old  collec- 
tion called  "  The  Diadem,"  such  as  Mrs.  Hemans's  "  Cross 
in  the  Wilderness,"  and  Dale's  "  Christian  Virgin  to  her  Apos- 
tate   Lover;"    but    she   reminded  me  one  day  during  her 


MADE   PERFECT  THROUGH    SUFFERING.  93 

illness  of  how  little  she  understood  what  she  was  saying,  in  the 
days  when  she  fluently  recited  such  lines  to  her  nursery 
audience. 

She  liked  to  repeat  the  alternate  verses  of  the  Psalms,  when 
the  others  were  read  to  her ;  and  to  the  good  things  laid  up 
in  her  mind  she  owed  much  of  the  consolation  that  strength- 
ened her  in  hours  of  trial.  After  one  night  of  great  suffering, 
in  which  she  had  been  repeating  George  Herbert's  poem, 
"The  Pulley,"  she  said  that  the  last  verse  had  helped  her  to 
realize  what  the  hidden  good  might  be  which  underlaid  her 

pain :  — 

"  Let  him  be  rich  and  weary  ;  that,  at  least, 

If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast." 

During  the  earlier  part  of  her  illness,  when  every  one  ex- 
pected that  she  would  recover,  she  found  it  difficult  to  sub- 
mit to  the  unaccountable  sufferings  which  her  highly  strung 
temperament  felt  so  keenly ;  but  after  this  special  night  of 
physical  and  mental  darkness,  it  seemed,  as  if  light  had  bro- 
ken upon  her  through  the  clouds,  for  she  said  she  had,  as  it 
were,  looked  her  pain  and  weariness  in  the  face,  and  seen 
they  were  sent  for  some  purpose  ;  and  now  that  she  had 
done  so,  we  should  find  that  she  would  be  "  more  patient 
than  before."  We  were  told  to  take  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
write  out  a  calendar  for  a  week  with  the  text  above,  "  In  pa- 
tience possess  ye  your  souls."  Then  as  each  day  went  by 
we  were  to  strike  it  through  with  a  pencil ;  this  we  did,  hop- 
ing that  the  passing  days  were  leading  her  nearer  to  recovery, 
and  not  knowing  that  each  was  in  reality  "a  day's  march 
nearer  home." 

For  the  text  of  another  week  she  had  "  Be  strong  and  of 
a  good  courage,"  as  the  words  had  been  said  by  a  kind  friend 


94  MRS.   EWING'S    HUMILITY. 


to  cheer  her  just  before  undergoing  the  trial  of  an  operation 
Later  still,  when  nights  of  suffering  were  added  to  days  of 
pain,   she    chose,    "  The    day   is   Thine,  the   night   also   is 
Thine." 

Of  what  may  be  termed  external  spiritual  privileges  she  did 
not  have  many,  but  she  derived  much  comfort  from  an  unex- 
pected visitor.  During  nine  years  previously  she  had  known 
the  Rev.  Edward  Thring  as  a  correspondent,  but  they  had 
not  met  face  to  face,  though  they  had  tried  on  several  occa- 
sions to  do  so.  Now,  when  their  chances  of  meeting  were 
nearly  gone,  he  came  and  gave  great  consolation  by  his  unrav- 
elling of  the  mystery  of  suffering,  and  its  sanctifying  power ; 
as  also  by  his  interpretation  that  the  life  which  we  are  meant 
to  lead  under  the  dispensation  of  the  Spirit  who  has  been 
given  for  our  guidance  into  truth,  is  one  which  does  not  take 
us  out  of  the  world,  but  keeps  us  from  its  evil,  enabling  us  to 
lead  a  heavenly  existence  on  earth,  and  so  to  span  over  the 
chasm  which  divides  us  from  heaven. 

Perhaps  some  of  us  may  wonder  that  Julie  should  need 
lessons  of  encouragement  and  comfort,  who  was  so  apt  a 
teacher  herself;  but  however  ready  she  may  always  have 
been  to  hope  for  others,  she  was  thoroughly  humble-minded 
about  herself.  On  one  day  near  the  end,  when  she  had  re- 
ceived some  letter  of  warm  praise  about  her  writings,  a  friend 
said  in  joke,  "  I  wonder  your  head  is  not  turned  by  such 
things  ;  "  and  Julie  replied,  "  I  don't  think  praise  really  hurts 
me,  because,  when  I  read  my  own  writings  over  again,  they 
often  seem  to  me  such  '  bosh  ; '  and  then,  too,  you  know  I 
lead  such  a  useless  life,  and  there  is  so  little  I  can  do,  it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  know  I  may  have  done  some  good." 

It  pleased  her  to  get  a  letter  from  Sir  Evelyn  Wood,  writ- 
ten from  the  Soudan,  telling  how  he  had  cried  over  "  Lsetus  ;  " 


DEATH   AND   BURIAL.  95 

and  she  was  almost  more  gratified  to  get  an  anonymous  expres- 
sion from  "  One  of  the  Oldest  Natives  of  the  Town  of  Alder- 
shot  "  of  his  "  warm  and  grateful  sense  of  the  charm  of  her 
delightful  references  to  a  district  much  loved  of  its  children, 
and  the  emotion  he  felt  in  recognizing  his  birthplace  so 
tenderly  alluded  to."  Julie  certainly  set  no  value  on  her 
own  actual  manuscripts,  for  she  almost  invariably  used  them 
up  when  they  were  returned  from  the  printers,  by  writing  on 
the  empty  sides,  and  destroying  them  after  they  had  thus 
done  double  duty.  She  was  quite  amused  by  a  relation  who 
begged  for  the  sheets  of  "  Jackanapes,"  and  so  rescued  them 
from  the  flames. 

On  the  nth  of  May  an  increase  of  suffering  made  it  ne- 
cessary that  my  sister  should  undergo  another  operation,  as 
the  one  chance  of  prolonging  her  life.  This  ordeal  she  faced 
with  undaunted  courage,  thanking  God  that  she  was  able  to 
take  chloroform  easily,  and  only  praying  He  would  end  her 
sufferings  speedily,  as  He  thought  best,  since  she  feared  her 
physical  ability  to  bear  them  patiently  was  nearly  worn  out. 

Her  prayer  was  answered,  when,  two  days  later,  free  from 
pain,  she  entered  into  rest.  On  the  16th  of  May  she  was 
buried  in  her  parish  church-yard  of  Trull,  near  Taunton,  in  a 
grave  literally  lined  with  moss  and  flowers ;  and  so  many 
floral  wreaths  and  crosses  were  sent  from  all  parts  of  Eng- 
land, that  when  the  grave  was  filled  up  they  entirely  covered 
it,  not  a  speck  of  soil  could  be  seen  ;  her  first  sleep  in  mother 
earth  was  beneath  a  coverlet  of  fragrant  white  blossoms.  No 
resting-place  than  this  could  be  more  fitting  for  her.  The 
church  is  deeply  interesting  from  its  antiquity  and  its  fine 
oak-screen  and  seats  carved  by  monks  of  Glastonbury,  while 
the  church-yard  is  an  idyllically  peaceful  one,  containing  sev- 
eral yew-trees  ;  under  one  of  these,  which  overshadows  Julie's 


96  UNTIL  THE   DAY   BREAK, 

grave,  the  remains  of  the  parish  stocks  are  to  be  seen,  —  a 
quaint  mixture  of  objects,  that  recalls  some  of  her  own  close 
tflendings  of  humor  and  pathos  into  one  scene.  Here,  "  for 
a  space,  the  tired  body  lies  with  feet  towards  the  dawn,"  but  I 
must  hope  and  believe  that  the  active  soul,  now  it  is  delivered 
from  the  burden  of  the  flesh,  has  realized  that  Gordon's  anti- 
cipations were  right  when  he  wrote  :  "  The  future  world  must 
be  much  more  amusing,  more  enticing,  more  to  be  desired 
than  this  world,  —  putting  aside  its  absence  of  sorrow  and 
sin.  The  future  world  has  been  somehow  painted  to  our 
minds  as  a  place  of  continuous  praise,  and,  though  we  may 
not  say  it,  yet  we  cannot  help  feeling  that,  if  thus,  it  would 
prove  monotonous.  It  cannot  be  thus.  It  must  be  a  life  of 
activity,  for  happiness  is  dependent  on  activity  :  death  is  ces- 
sation of  movement ;  life  is  all  movement." 

If  Archbishop  Trench,  too,  was  right  in  saying,  — 

"  The  tasks,  the  joys  of  earth,  the  same  in  heaven  will  be  ; 
Only  the  little  brook  has  widened  to  a  sea," 

have  we  not  cause  to  trust  that  Julie  still  ministers  to  the 
good  and  happiness  of  the  young  and  old  whom  she  served 
so  well  while  she  was  seen  among  them?  Let  her,  at  any 
rate,  be  to  us  one  of  those  who  shine  as  the  stars  to  lead  us 
unto  God  :  — 

"  God's  saints  are  shining  lights  :  who  stays 

Here  long  must  passe 
O'er  dark  hills,  swift  streames,  and  steep  ways 

As  smooth  as*glasse ; 
But  these  all  night, 

Like  Candles,  shed 
Their  beams,  and  light 

Us  into  bed. 


AND   THE   SHADOWS    FLEE   AWAY. 


97 


"They  are,  indeed,  our  pillar-fires, 

Seen  as  we  go ; 
They  are  that  Citie's  shining  spires 

We  travel  to. 
A  sword-like  gleame 

Kept  man  for  sin  — 
First  out,  this  beame 

Will  sruide  him  In." 


JACKANAPES. 


/ 


»k 


He  caught  at  his  own  reins,  and  spoke  very  loud,  — 

"  Jackanapes !     It  won't  do.     You  and  Lollo  must  go  on."     (p.  49-) 


BOSTON 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

188Q 


"  If  I  might  buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound  my  horse  for  her  favors, 
I  could  lay  on  like  a  butcher,  and  sit  like  a  Jackanapes,  never  off  I  " 

King  Henry  V.,  Act  v.  Scene  2, 


CHAPTER  I. 


Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms —  the  day 

Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 

The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 

Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent 

Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine': 
Yet  one  would  I  select  from  that  proud  throng. 

To  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 
The  Archangel's  trump,  not  glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for. 

Byron. 


IJJ^WO  Donkeys  and 
the  Geese  lived  on 
the  Green,  and  all 
other  residents  of 
any  social  stand- 
ing lived  in  houses 
round  it.  The 
houses  had  no 
names.  Every- 
body's address  was 
"The  Green,"  but 
the  Postman  and 
the  people  of  the 
place  knew  where  each  family  lived.     As  to  the  rest 


6  JACKANAPES. 

of  the  world,  what  has  one  to  do  with  the  rest  of  the 
world  when  he  is  safe  at  home  on  his  own  Goose 
Green?  Moreover,  if  a  stranger  did  come  on  any 
lawful  business,  he  might  ask  his  way  at  the  shop. 

Most  of  the  inhabitants  were  long-lived,  early 
deaths  (like  that  of  the  little  Miss  Jessamine) 
being  exceptional;  and  most  of  the  old  people 
were  proud  of  their  age,  especially  the  sexton, 
who  would  be  ninety-nine  come  Martinmas,  and 
whose  father  remembered  a  man  who  had  carried 
arrows,  as  a  boy,  for  the  battle  of  Flodden  Field. 
The  Gray  Goose  and  the  big  Miss  Jessamine  were 
the  only  elderly  persons  who  kept  their  ages 
secret.  Indeed,  Miss  Jessamine  never  mentioned 
any  one's  age,  or  recalled  the  exact  year  in  which 
anything  had  happened.  She  said  that  she  had 
been  taught  that  it  was  bad  manners  to  do  so  "  in 
a  mixed  assembly." 

The  Gray  Goose  also  avoided  dates;  but  this 
was  partly  because  her  brain,  though  intelligent, 
was  not  mathematical,  and  computation  was  be- 
yond her.  She  never  got  farther  than  "  last 
Michaelmas,"  "  the  Michaelmas  before  that,"  and 
"the  Michaelmas  before  the  Michaelmas  before 
that."  After  this  her  head,  which  was  small,  be- 
came confused,  and  she  said,  "  Ga,  ga ! "  and 
changed  the  subject. 

But  she  remembered  the  little  Miss  Jessamine, 
the  Miss  Jessamine  with  the  "  conspicuous  "  hair. 
Her  aunt,  the  big  Miss  Jessamine,  said  it  was  her 


WORRYING  TIMES.  7 

only  fault.  The  hair  was  clean,  was  abundant, 
was  glossy ;  but  do  what  you  would  with  it,  it  never 
looked  quite  like  other  people's.  And  at  church, 
after  Saturday  night's  wash,  it  shone  like  the  best 
brass  fender  after  a  spring  cleaning.  In  short,  it 
was  conspicuous,  which  does  not  become  a  young 
woman,  especially  in  church. 

Those  were  worrying  times  altogether,  and  the 
Green  was  used  for  strange  purposes.  A  political 
meeting  was  held  on  it  with  the  village  Cobbler  in 
the  chair,  and  a  speaker  who  came  by  stage-coach 
from  the  town,  where  they  had  wrecked  the  bak- 
ers' shops,  and  discussed  the  price  of  bread.  He 
came  a  second  time  by  stage ;  but  the  people  had 
heard  something  about  him  in  the  mean  while,  and 
they  did  not  keep  him  on  the  Green.  They  took 
him  to  the  pond  and  tried  to  make  him  swim, 
which  he  could  not  do,  and  the  whole  affair  was 
very  disturbing  to  all  quiet  and  peaceable  fowls. 
After  which  another  man  came,  and  preached  ser- 
mons on  the  Green,  and  a  great  many  people  went 
to  hear  him ;  for  those  were  "  trying  times,"  and 
folk  ran  hither  and  thither  for  comfort.  And  then 
what  did  they  do  but  drill  the  ploughboys  on  the 
Green,  to  get  them  ready  to  fight  the  French,  and 
teach  them  the  goose-step  !  However,  that  came 
to  an  end  at  last ;  for  Bony  was  sent  to  St.  Helena, 
and  the  ploughboys  were  sent  back  to  the  plough. 

Everybody  lived  in  fear  of  Bony  in  those  days, 
especially  the  naughty  children,  who  were  kept  in 


8  JACKANAPES. 

order  during  the  day  by  threats  of  "  Bony  shall 
have  you,"  and  who  had  nightmares  about  him  in 
the  dark.  They  thought  he  was  an  Ogre  in  a 
cocked  hat.  The  Gray  Goose  thought  he  was  a 
Fox,  and  that  all  the  men  of  England  were  going 
out  in  red  coats  to  hunt  him.  It  was  no  use  to 
argue  the  point ;  for  she  had  a  very  small  head, 
and  when  one  idea  got  into  it  there  was  no  room 
for  another. 

Besides,  the  Gray  Goose  never  saw  Bony,  nor 
did  the  children,  which  rather  spoilt  the  terror  of 
him,  so  that  the  Black  Captain  became  more  effec- 
tive as  a  Bogy  with  hardened  offenders.  The 
Gray  Goose  remembered  his  coming  to  the  place 
perfectly.  What  he  came  for  she  did  not  pretend 
to  know.  It  was  all  part  and  parcel  of  the  war 
and  bad  times.  He  was  called  the  Black  Captain, 
partly  because  of  himself  and  partly  because  of 
his  wonderful  black  mare.  Strange  stories  were 
afloat  of  how  far  and  how  fast  that  mare  could  go 
when  her  master's  hand  was  on  her  mane  and 
he  whispered  in  her  ear.  Indeed,  some  people 
thought  we  might  reckon  ourselves  very  lucky  if 
we  were  not  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire, 
and  had  not  got  a  certain  well-known  Gentleman 
of  the  Road  to  protect  us  against  the  French. 
But  that,  of  course,  made  him  none  the  less  useful 
to  the  Johnsons'  Nurse  when  the  little  Miss  John- 
sons were  naughty. 

"  You  leave  off  crying  this  minnit,  Miss  Jane,  or 


THE   BLACK   CAPTAIN.  9 

I  '11  give  you  right  away  to  that  horrid  wicked  offi- 
cer. Jemima!  just  look  out  o'  the  windy,  if  you 
please,  and  see  if  the  Black  Cap'n  's  a-coming  with 
his  horse  to  carry  away  Miss  Jane." 

And  there,  sure  enough,  the  Black  Captain 
strode  by,  with  his  sword  clattering  as  if  it  did  not 
know  whose  head  to  cut  off  first.  But  he  did 
not  call  for  Miss  Jane  that  time.  He  went  on  to 
the  Green,  where  he  came  so  suddenly  upon  the 
eldest  Master  Johnson,  sitting  in  a  puddle  on  pur- 
pose, in  his  new  nankeen  skeleton  suit,  that  the 
young  gentleman  thought  judgment  had  overtaken 
him  at  last,  and  abandoned  himself  to  the  howlings 
of  despair.  His  howls  were  redoubled  when  he 
was  clutched  from  behind  and  swung  over  the 
Black  Captain's  shoulder;  but  in  five  minutes  his 
tears  were  stanched,  and  he  was  playing  with  the 
officer's  accoutrements.  All  of  which  the  Gray 
Goose  saw  with  her  own  eyes,  and  heard  after- 
wards that  that  bad  boy  had  been  whining  to 
go  back  to  the  Black  Captain  ever  since,  which 
showed  how  hardened  he  was,  and  that  nobody 
but  Bonaparte  himself  could  be  expected  to  do 
him  any  good. 

But  those  were  "  trying  times."  It  was  bad 
enough  when  the  pickle  of  a  large  and  respectable 
family  cried  for  the  Black  Captain ;  when  it  came 
to  the  little  Miss  Jessamine  crying  for  him,  one 
felt  that  the  sooner  the  French  landed  and  had 
done  with  it,  the  better. 


IO  JACKANAPES. 

The  big  Miss  Jessamine's  objection  to  him  was 
that  he  was  a  soldier;  and  this  prejudice  was 
shared  by  all  the  Green.  "  A  soldier,"  as  the 
speaker  from  the  town  had  observed,  "  is  a  blood- 
thirsty, unsettled  sort  of  a  rascal,  that  the  peace- 
able, home-loving,  bread-winning  citizen  can  never 
conscientiously  look  on  as  a  brother  till  he  has 
beaten  his  sword  into  a  ploughshare  and  his  spear 
into  a  pruning-hook." 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  some  truth  in  what 
the  Postman  (an  old  soldier)  said  in  reply,  —  that  the 
sword  has  to  cut  a  way  for  us  out  of  many  a  scrape 
into  which  our  bread-winners  get  us  when  they 
drive  their  ploughshares  into  fallows  that  don't  be- 
long to  them.  Indeed,  whilst  our  most  peaceful 
citizens  were  prosperous  chiefly  by  means  of  cot- 
ton, of  sugar,  and  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  money- 
market  (not  to  speak  of  such  salable  matters  as 
opium,  firearms,  and  "black  ivory"),  disturbances 
were  apt  to  arise  in  India,  Africa,  and  other  out- 
landish parts,  where  the  fathers  of  our  domestic 
race  were  making  fortunes  for  their  families.  And 
for  that  matter,  even  on  the  Green,  we  did  not 
wish  the  military  to  leave  us  in  the  lurch,  so  long 
as  there  was  any  fear  that  the  French  were 
coming.1 

1  "The  political  men  declare  war,  and  generally  for  commercial 
interests ;  but  when  the  nation  is  thus  embroiled  with  its  neigh- 
bors, the  soldier  .  .  .  draws  the  sword  at  the  command  of  his 
country.  .  .  .  One  word  as  to  thy  comparison  of  military  and  com- 
mercial persons.     What  manner  of  men  be  they  who  have  supplied 


OFF  FOR  GRETNA  GREEN. 


II 


To  let  the  Black  Captain  have  little  Miss  Jessa- 
mine, however,  was  another  matter.  Her  aunt 
would  not  hear  of  it ;  and  then,  to  crown  all,  it  ap- 
peared that  the  Captain's  father  did  not  think  the 


young  lady  goo*,  enough  for  his  son.  Never  was 
any  affair  more  clearly  brought  to  a  conclusion. 

But  those  were  "  trying  times  ;  "  and  one  moon- 
light night,  when  the  Gray  Goose  was  sound  asleep 

the  Caffres  with  the  fire-arms  and  ammunition  to  maintain  their 
savage  and  deplorable  wars  ?  Assuredly  they  are  not  military. 
.  .  .  Cease  then,  if  thou  wouldst  be  counted  among  the  just, 
*o  vilify  soldiers."  —  W.  Napier,  Lieutenant- General,  November, 


12  JACKANAPES. 

upon  one  leg,  the  Green  was  rudely  shaken  under 
her  by  the  thud  of  a  horse's  feet.  "  Ga,  ga  !  "  said 
she,  putting  down  the  other  leg  and  running  away. 

By  the  time  she  returned  to  her  place  not  a 
thing  was  to  be  seen  or  heard.  The  horse  had 
passed  like  a  shot.  But  next  day  there  was  hur- 
rying and  skurrying  and  cackling  at  a  very  early 
hour,  all  about  the  white  house  with  the  black 
beams,  where  Miss  Jessamine  lived.  And  when 
the  sun  was  so  low  and  the  shadows  so  long  on  the 
grass  that  the  Gray  Goose  felt  ready  to  run  away 
at  the  sight  of  her  own  neck,  little  Miss  Jane  John- 
son and  her  "  particular  friend "  Clarinda  sat 
under  the  big  oak  tree  on  the  Green,  and  Jane 
pinched  Clarinda's  little  finger  till  she  found  that 
she  could  keep  a  secret,  and  then  she  told  her  in 
confidence  that  she  had  heard  from  Nurse  and 
Jemima  that  Miss  Jessamine's  niece  had  been  a 
very  naughty  girl,  and  that  that  horrid  wicked 
officer  had  come  for  her  on  his  black  horse  and 
carried  her  right  away. 

"  Will  she  never  come  back?"  asked  Clarinda. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Jane,  decidedly.  "  Bony  never 
brings  people  back." 

"Not  never  no  more?"  sobbed  Clarinda,  for  she 
was  weak-minded,  and  could  not  bear  to  think  that 
Bony  never,  never  let  naughty  people  go  home 
again. 

Next  day  Jane  had  heard  more. 

"  He  has  taken  her  to  a  Green." 


THE  BLACK  CAPTAIN  GOES  TO  WAR.    1 3 

'A  Goose  Green?"  asked  Clarinda. 

"  No.  A  Gretna  Green.  Don't  ask  so  many 
questions,  child,"  said  Jane,  who,  having  no  more 
to  tell,  gave  herself  airs. 

Jane  was  wrong  on  one  point.  Miss  Jessamine's 
niece  did  come  back,  and  she  and  her  husband 
were  forgiven.  The  Gray  Goose  remembered  it 
well;  it  was  Michaelmas-tide,  the  Michaelmas  be- 
fore the  Michaelmas  before  the  Michaelmas  —  but, 
ga,  ga!  What  does  the  date  matter?  It  was  au- 
tumn, harvest-time,  and  everybody  was  so  busy 
prophesying  and  praying  about  the  crops,  that  the 
young  couple  wandered  through  the  lanes,  and  got 
blackberries  for  Miss  Jessamine's  celebrated  crab 
and  blackberry  jam,  and  made  guys  of  themselves 
with  bryony-wreaths,  and  not  a  soul  troubled  his 
head  about  them,  except  the  children  and  the 
Postman.  The  children  dogged  the  Black  Cap- 
tain's footsteps  (his  bubble  reputation  as  an  Ogre 
having  burst)  clamoring  for  a  ride  on  the  black 
mare.  And  the  Postman  would  go  somewhat  out 
of  his  postal  way  to  catch  the  Captain's  dark  eye, 
and  show  that  he  had  not  forgotten  how  to  salute 
an  officer. 

But  they  were  "trying  times."  One  afternoon 
the  black  mare  was  stepping  gently  up  and  down 
the  grass,  with  her  head  at  her  master's  shoulder, 
and  as  many  children  crowded  on  to  her  silky  back 
as  if  she  had  been  an  elephant  in  a  menagerie; 
and   the    next   afternoon   she   carried   him   away, 


14 


JACKANAPES, 


sword  and  sabre-tache  clattering  war  music  at  her 
side,  and  the  old  Postman  waiting  for  them,  rigid 
with  salutation,  at  the  four  cross-roads. 


War  and  bad  times !  It  was  a  hard  winter ;  and 
the  big  Miss  Jessamine  and  the  little  Miss  Jessa- 
mine (but  she  was  Mrs.  Black-Captain  now)  lived 


ILL  NEWS   RIDES   POST.  1 5 

very  economically,  that  they  might  help  their 
poorer  neighbors.  They  neither  entertained  nor 
went  into  company ;  but  the  young  lady  always 
went  up  the  village  as  far  as  the  George  and 
Dragon,  for  air  and  exercise,  when  the  London 
Mail1  came  in. 

One  day  (it  was  a  day  in  the  following  June)  it 
came  in  earlier  than  usual,  and  the  young  lady  was 
not  there  to  meet  it. 

But  a  crowd  soon  gathered  round  the  George  and 
Dragon,  gaping  to  see  the  Mail  Coach  dressed  with 
flowers  and  oak-leaves,  and  the  guard  wearing  a 
laurel  wreath  over  and  above  his  royal  livery.  The 
ribbons  that  decked  the  horses  were  stained  and 
flecked  with  the  warmth  and  foam  of  the  pace  at 
which  they  had  come,  for  they  had  pressed  on  with 
the  news  of  Victory. 

Miss  Jessamine  was  sitting  with  her  niece  under 
the  oak-tree  on  the  Green,  when  the  Postman  put 
a  newspaper  silently  into  her  hand.  Her  niece 
turned  quickly,  — 

"  Is  there  news?  " 

"Don't  agitate  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  her  aunt. 
"  I  will  read  it  aloud,  and  then  we  can  enjoy  it  to- 

1  "  The  Mail  Coach  it  was  that  distributed  over  the  face  of  the 
land,  like  the  opening  of  apocalyptic  vials,  the  heart-shaking  news 
of  Trafalgar,  of  Salamanca,  of  Vittoria,  of  Waterloo.  .  .  .  The 
grandest  chapter  of  our  experience,  within  the  whole  Mail-Coach 
service,  was  on  those  occasions  when  we  went  down  from  London 
with  the  news  of  Victory.  Five  years  of  life  it  was  worth  paying 
down  for  the  privilege  of  an  outside  place."  —  De  Quincey. 


1 6  JACKANAPES. 

gether ;  a  far  more  comfortable  method,  my  love, 
than  when  you  go  up  the  village,  and  come  home 
out  of  breath,  having  snatched  half  the  news  as 
you  run." 

"  I  am  all  attention,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  little 
lady,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  on  her  lap. 

Then     Miss  Jessamine    read    aloud,  —  she   was 

proud  of  her  reading,  —  and  the  old  soldier  stood 

at  attention  behind  her,  with  such  a  blending  of 

pride  and   pity  on  his  face  as   it  was  strange  to 

see:  — 

"  Downing  Street, 

June  22,  1815,  1  A.  m." 

"That's  one  in  the  morning,"  gasped  the  Post- 
man ;   "  beg  your  pardon,  mum." 

But  though  he  apologized,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  echoing  here  and  there  a  weighty  word : 
"Glorious  victory,"  —  "Two  hundred  pieces  of 
artillery,"  —  "Immense  quantity  of  ammunition,"  — 
and  so  forth. 

"The  loss  of  the  British  Army  upon  this  occasion  has 
unfortunately  been  most  severe.  It  had  not  been  possible  to 
make  out  a  return  of  the  killed  and  wounded  when  Major 
Percy  left  headquarters.  The  names  of  the  officers  killed 
and  wounded,  as  far  as  they  can  be  collected,  are  annexed. 

"  I  have  the  honor  —  " 

"  The  list,  aunt !     Read  the  list !  " 

"  My  love  —  my  darling  —  let  us  go  in  and  —  " 

"No.     Now!  now!" 

To  one  thing  the  supremely  afflicted  are  entitled 


FIERCE   WAR   AND   FAITHFUL   LOVE.  1 7 

in  their  sorrow,  —  to  be  obeyed  ;  and  yet  it  is  the 
last  kindness  that  people  commonly  will  do  them. 
But  Miss  Jessamine  did.  Steadying  her  voice,  as 
best  she  might,  she  read  on  ;  and  the  old  soldier 
stood  bareheaded  to  hear  that  first  Roll  of  the 
Dead  at  Waterloo,  which  began  with  the  Duke  of 
Brunswick  and  ended  with  Ensign  Brown.1  Five- 
and-thirty  British  Captains  fell  asleep  that  day  on 
the  Bed  of  Honor,  and  the  Black  Captain  slept 
among  them. 

There  are  killed  and  wounded  by  war,  of  whom 
no  returns  reach  Downing  Street. 

Three  days  later,  the  Captain's  wife  had  joined 
him,  and  Miss  Jessamine  was  kneeling  by  the 
cradle  of  their  orphan  son,  a  purple-red  morsel  of 
humanity,  with  conspicuously  golden  hair. 

"Will  he  live,  Doctor?" 

"Live?  God  bless  my  soul,  ma'am!  Look  at 
him  !     The  young  Jackanapes  !  " 

1  "Brunswick's  fated  chieftain"  fell  at  Quatre  Bras,  the  day 
before  Waterloo;  but  this  first  (very  imperfect)  list,  as  it  appeared 
in  the  newspapers  of  the  day,  did  begin  with  his  name  and  end 
with  that  of  an  Ensign  Brown. 


CHAPTER  II. 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  Nurse. 

Longfellow. 


HE  Gray  Goose  remembered  quite 
well  the  year  that  Jackanapes 
began  to  walk,  for  it  was  the 
year  that  the  speckled  hen 
for  the  first  time  in  all  her 
motherly  life  got  out  of  pa- 
tience when  she  was  sitting. 
She  had  been  rather  proud 
of  the  eggs,  —  they  were  un- 
usually large,  —  but  she  never 
felt  quite  comfortable  on  them  ;  and  whether  it  was 
because  she  used  to  get  cramp  and  go  off  the  nest, 
or  because  the  season  was  bad,  or  what,  she  never 
could  tell;  but  every  egg  was  addled  but  one,  and 
the  one  that  did  hatch  gave  her  more  trouble  than 
any  chick  she  had  ever  reared. 

It  was  a  fine,  downy,  bright  yellow  little  thing, 
but  it  had  a  monstrous  big  nose  and  feet,  and  such 
an  ungainly  walk  as  she  knew  no  other  instance  of 
in  her  well-bred  and  high-stepping  family.  And  as 
to  behavior,  it  was  not  that  it  was  either  quarrelsome 


THE  YELLOW  THING.  19 

or  moping,  but  simply  unlike  the  rest.  When  the 
other  chicks  hopped  and  cheeped  on  the  Green 
about  their  mother's  feet,  this  solitary  yellow  brat 
went  waddling  off  on  its  own  responsibility,  and  do 
or  cluck  what  the  speckled  hen  would,  it  went  to 
play  in  the  pond. 

It  was  off  one  day  as  usual,  and  the  hen  was 
fussing  and  fuming  after  it,  when  the  Postman,  go- 
ing to  deliver  a  letter  at  Miss  Jessamine's  door, 
was  nearly  knocked  over  by  the  good  lady  herself, 
who,  bursting  out  of  the  house  with  her  cap  just  off 
and  her  bonnet  just  not  on,  fell  into  his  arms, 
crying,  — 

"  Baby !  Baby !  Jackanapes  !  Jackanapes  !  " 

If  the  Postman  loved  anything  on  earth,  he 
loved  the  Captain's  yellow-haired  child ;  so,  prop- 
ping Miss  Jessamine  against  her  own  door-post, 
he  followed  the  direction  of  her  trembling  fingers 
and  made  for  the  Green. 

Jackanapes  had  had  the  start  of  the  Postman  by 
nearly  ten  minutes.  The  world  —  the  round  green 
world  with  an  oak  tree  on  it  —  was  just  becoming 
very  interesting  to  him.  He  had  tried,  vigorously 
but  ineffectually,  to  mount  a  passing  pig  the  last 
time  he  was  taken  outwalking;  but  then  he  was 
encumbered  with  a  nurse.  Now  he  was  his  own 
master,  and  might,  by  courage  and  energy,  become 
the  master  of  that  delightful  downy,  dumpy,  yellow 
thing  that  was  bobbing  along  over  the  green  grass 
in  front  of  him.     Forward  !     Charge  !     He  aimed 


20 


JACKANAPES. 


well,  and  grabbed  it,  but  only  to  feel  the  delicious 
downiness  and  dumpiness  slipping  through  his  fin- 
gers as  he  fell  upon  his  face.  "  Quawk !  "  said  the 
yellow  thing,  and  wabbled  off  sideways.  It  was 
this  oblique  movement  that  enabled  Jackanapes  to 


come  up  with  it ,  for  it  was  bound  for  the  pond, 
and  therefore  obliged  to  come  back  into  line.  He 
failed  again  from  top-heaviness,  and  his  prey  es- 
caped sideways  as  before,  and,  as  before,  lost  ground 
in  getting  back  to  the  direct  road  to  the  Pond. 


THE  TWO   YELLOW  THINGS.  21 

And  at  the  Pond  the  Postman  found  them  both,  — 
one  yellow  thing  rocking  safely  on  the  ripples  that 
lie  beyond  duck-weed,  and  the  other  washing  his 
draggled  frock  with  tears  because  he  too  had  tried 
to  sit  upon  the  Pond  and  it  would  n't  hold  him. 


CHAPTER  III. 


If  studious,  copie  fair  what  time  hath  blurred, 
Redeem  truth  from  his  jawes  :  if  souldier, 
Chase  brave  employments  with  a  naked  sword 
Throughout  the  worltl.     Fool  not ;  for  all  may  have, 
If  they  dare  try,  a  glorious  life,  or  grave. 

In  brief,  acquit  thee  bravely  :  play  the  man. 
Look  not  on  pleasures  as  they  come,  but  go. 
Defer  not  the  least  vertue :  life's  poore  span 
Make  not  an  ell,  by  trifling  in  thy  woe. 
If  thou  do  ill,  the  joy  fades,  not  the  pains. 
If  well :  the  pain  doth  fade,  the  joy  remains. 

George  Herbert. 


OUNG  Mrs. 
Johnson,  who 
was  a  mother 
of  many,  hard- 
ly knew  which 
to  pity  more,  — 
Miss  Jessamine 
for  having  her  little  ways  and  her  antimacassars 
rumpled  by  a  young  Jackanapes,  or  the  boy  him- 
self for  being  brought  up  by  an  old  maid. 

Oddly  enough,  she  would  probably  have  pitied 
neither,  had  Jackanapes  been  a  girl.     (One  is  so 


WHAT  ARE   LITTLE   BOYS   MADE   OF?  23 

apt  to  think  that  what  works  smoothest,  works  to 
the  highest  ends,  having  no  patience  for  the  results 
of  friction.)  That  father  in  God  who  bade  the 
young  men  to  be  pure  and  the  maidens  brave, 
greatly  disturbed  a  member  of  his  congregation, 
who  thought  that  the  great  preacher  had  made  a 
slip  of  the  tongue. 

"That  the  girls  should  have  purity,  and  the 
boys  courage,  is  what  you  would  say,  good 
father?" 

"  Nature  has  done  that,"  was  the  reply ;  "  I 
meant  what  I  said." 

In  good  sooth,  a  young  maid  is  all  the  better 
for  learning  some  robuster  virtues  than  maiden- 
liness  and  not  to  move  the  antimacassars ;  and  the 
robuster  virtues  require  some  fresh  air  and  free- 
dom. As,  on  the  other  hand,  Jackanapes  (who 
had  a  boy's  full  share  of  the  little  beast  and  the 
young  monkey  in  his  natural  composition)  was 
none  the  worse,  at  his  tender  years,  for  learning 
some  maidenliness,  —  so  far  as  maidenliness  means 
decency,  pity,  unselfishness,  and  pretty  behavior. 

And  it  is  due  to  him  to  say  that  he  was  an 
obedient  boy,  and  a  boy  whose  word  could  be 
depended  on,  long  before  his  grandfather  the 
General  came  to  live  at  the  Green. 

'  He  was  obedient ;  that  is,  he  did  what  his  great- 
aunt  told  him.  But — oh  dear!  oh  dear! — the 
pranks  he  played,  which  it  had  never  entered  into 
her  head  to  forbid  ! 


24  JACKANAPES. 

It  was  when  he  had  just  been  put  into  skeletons 
(frocks  never  suited  him)  that  he  became  very 
friendly  with  Master  Tony  Johnson,  a  younger 
brother  of  the  young  gentleman  who  sat  in  the 
puddle  on  purpose.  Tony  was  not  enterprising, 
and  Jackanapes  led  him  by  the  nose.  One  sum- 
mer's evening  they  were  out  late,  and  Miss  Jessa- 
mine was  becoming  anxious,  when  Jackanapes 
presented  himself  with  a  ghastly  face  all  be- 
smirched with  tears.     He  was  unusually  subdued. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  he  sobbed,  —  "  if  you  please,  I  'm 
very  much  afraid  that  Tony  Johnson  's  dying  in 
the  churchyard." 

Miss  Jessamine  was  just  beginning  to  be  dis- 
tracted, when  she  smelt  Jackanapes. 

"  You  naughty,  naughty  boys !  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you've  been  smoking?" 

"Not  pipes,"  urged  Jackanapes;  "upon  my 
honor,  aunty,  not  pipes.  Only  cigars  like  Mr. 
Johnson's !  and  only  made  of  brown  paper  with 
a  very,  very  little  tobacco  from  the  shop  inside 
them." 

Whereupon  Miss  Jessamine  sent  a  servant  to 
the  churchyard,  who  found  Tony  Johnson  lying 
on  a  tombstone,  very  sick,  and  having  ceased  to 
entertain  any  hopes  of  his  own  recovery. 

If  it  could  be  possible  that  any  "  unpleasant- 
ness "  could  arise  between  two  such  amiable  neigh- 
bors as  Miss  Jessamine  and  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  if 
the   still    more    incredible    paradox    can    be   that 


A   DELICATE   QUESTION.  25 

ladies  may  differ  over  a  point  on  which  they  are 
agreed,  that  point  was  the  admitted  fact  that 
Tony  Johnson  was  "  delicate ;  "  and  the  difference 
lay  chiefly  in  this:  Mrs.  Johnson  said  that  Tony 
was  delicate,  —  meaning  that  he  was  more  finely 
strung,  more  sensitive,  a  propercr  subject  for 
pampering  and  petting,  than  Jackanapes,  and  that, 
consequently,  Jackanapes  was  to  blame  for  lead- 
ing Tony  into  scrapes  which  resulted  in  his  being 
chilled,  frightened,  or  (most  frequently)  sick.  But 
when  Miss  Jessamine  said  that  Tony  Johnson  was 
delicate,  she  meant  that  he  was  more  puling,  less 
manly,  and  less  healthily  brought  up  than  Jacka- 
napes, who,  when  they  got  into  mischief  together, 
was  certainly  not  to  blame  because  his  friend  could 
not  get  wet,  sit  a  kicking  donkey,  ride  in  the 
giddy-go-round,  bear  the  noise  of  a  cracker,  or 
smoke  brown  paper  with  impunity,  as  he  could. 

Not  that  there  was  ever  the  slightest  quarrel 
between  the  ladies.  It  never  even  came  near  it, 
except  the  day  after  Tony  had  been  so  very  sick 
with  riding  Bucephalus  in  the  giddy-go-round. 
Mrs.  Johnson  had  explained  to  Miss  Jessamine 
that  the  reason  Tony  was  so  easily  upset  was  the 
unusual  sensitiveness  (as  a  doctor  had  explained 
it  to  her)  of  the  nervous  centres  in  her  family  — 
"  Fiddlestick !  "  So  Mrs.  Johnson  understood 
Miss  Jessamine  to  say;  but  it  appeared  that  she 
only  said  "  Treaclestick?  "  which  is  quite  another 
thing,  and  of  which  Tony -was  undoubtedly  fond. 


26  JACKANAPES. 

It  was  at  the  Fair  that  Tony  was  made  ill  by 
riding  on  Bucephalus.  Once  a  year  the  Goose 
Green  became  the  scene  of  a  carnival.  First  of 
all,  carts  and  caravans  were  rumbling  up  all  along, 
day  and  night.  Jackanapes  could  hear  them  as 
he  lay  in  bed,  and  could  hardly  sleep  for  speculat- 
ing what  booths  and  whirligigs  he  should  find 
fairly  established  when  he  and  his  dog  Spitfire 
went  out  after  breakfast.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
seldom  had  to  wait  so  long  for  news  of  the  Fair. 
The  Postman  knew  the  window  out  of  which 
Jackanapes's  yellow  head  would  come,  and  was 
ready  with  his  report. 

"  Royal  Theayter,  Master  Jackanapes,  in  the  old 
place,  but  be  careful  o'  them  seats,  sir ;  they  're 
rickettier  than  ever.  Two  sweets  and  a  ginger 
beer  under  the  oak-tree,  and  the  Flying  Boats  is 
just  a-coming  along  the  road." 

No  doubt  it  was  partly  because  he  had  already 
suffered  severely  in  the  Flying  Boats  that  Tony 
collapsed  so  quickly  in  the  giddy-go-round.  He 
only  mounted  Bucephalus  (who  was  spotted,  and 
had  no  tail)  because  Jackanapes  urged  him,  and 
held  out  the  ingenious  hope  that  the  round-and- 
round  feeling  would  very  likely  cure  the  up-and- 
down  sensation.  It  did  not,  however,  and  Tony 
tumbled  off  during  the  first  revolution. 

Jackanapes  was  not  absolutely  free  from  qualms ; 
but  having  once  mounted  the  Black  Prince,  he 
stuck  to  him  as  a  horseman  should.     During  the 


THE  FAIR. 


27 


first  round  he  waved  his  hat,  and  observed  with 
some  concern  that  the  Black  Prince  had  lost  an  ear 
since  last  Fair;  at  the  second,  he  looked  a 
little  pale,  but  sat  upright,  though  somewhat  un- 
necessarily rigid ;  at  the  third  round  he  shut  his 
eyes.  During  the  fourth  his  hat  fell  off,  and 
he  clasped  his  horse's  neck.     By  the  fifth  he  had 


laid  his  yellow  head  against  the  Black  Prince's 
mane,  and  so  clung  anyhow  till  the  hobby-horses 
stopped,  when  the  proprietor  assisted  him  to 
alight,  and  he  sat  down  rather  suddenly  and  said 
he  had  enjoyed  it  very  much. 

The  Gray  Goose  always  ran  away  at  the  first 
approach  of  the  caravans,  and  never  came  back 
to  the  Green  till  there  was  nothing  left  of  the  Fair 


2S  JACKANAPES. 

but  footmarks  and  oyster-shells.  Running  away 
was  her  pet  principle ;  the  only  system,  she  main- 
tained, by  which  you  can  live  long  and  easily  and 
lose  nothing.  If  you  run  away  when  you  see 
danger,  you  can  come  back  when  all  is  safe.  Run 
quickly,  return  slowly,  hold  your  head  high,  and 
gabble  as  loud  as  you  can,  and  you  '11  preserve  the 
respect  of  the  Goose  Green  to  a  peaceful  old  age. 
Why  should  you  struggle  and  get  hurt,  if  you  can 
lower  your  head  and  swerve,  and  not  lose  a 
feather?  Why  in  the  world  should  any  one  spoil 
the    pleasure  of  life,  or  risk  his  skin,  if  he   can 

help  it? 

" '  What's  the  use  ?  ' 
Said  the  Goose." 

Before  answering  which  one  might  have  to  con- 
sider what  world,  which  life,  and  whether  his  skin 
were  a  goose-skin ;  but  the  Gray  Goose's  head 
would  never  have  held  all  that. 

Grass  soon  grows  over  footprints,  and  the  vil- 
lage children  took  the  oyster-shells  to  trim  their 
gardens  with ;  but  the  year  after  Tony  rode 
Bucephalus  there  lingered  another  relic  of  Fair- 
time  in  which  Jackanapes  was  deeply  interested. 
"The  Green"  proper  was  originally  only  part  of 
a  straggling  common,  which  in  its  turn  merged 
mto  some  wilder  waste  land  where  gypsies  some- 
times squatted  if  the  authorities  would  allow  them, 
especially  after  the  annual  Fair.  And  it  was  after 
the  Fair  that  Jackanapes,  out  ''ambling  by  himself, 


HOW  TO   STICK   ON.  2Q 

was  knocked  over  by  the  Gypsy's  son  riding  the 
Gypsy's  red-haired  pony  at  breakneck  pace  across 
the  common. 

Jackanapes  got  up  and  shook  himself,  none  the 
worse  except  for  being  heels  over  head  in  love 
with  the  red-haired  pony.  What  a  rate  he  went 
at !  How  he  spurned  the  ground  with  his  nimble 
feet!  How  his  red  coat  shone  in  the  sunshine! 
And  what  bright  eyes  peeped  out  of  his  dark 
forelock  as  it  was  blown  by  the  wind ! 

The  Gypsy  boy  had  had  *a  fright,  and  he  was 
willing  enough  to  reward  Jackanapes  for  not  having 
been  hurt,  by  consenting  to  let  him  have  a  ride. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  kill  the  little  fine  gentleman, 
and  swing  us  all  on  the  gibbet,  you  rascal?" 
screamed  the  Gypsy  mother,  who  came  up  just  as 
Jackanapes  and  the  pony  set  off. 

"  He  would  get  on,"  replied  her  son.  "  It  '11  not 
kill  him.  He'll  fall  on  his  yellow  head,  and  it's 
as  tough  as  a  cocoanut." 

But  Jackanapes  did  not  fall.  He  stuck  to  the 
red-haired  pony  as  he  had  stuck  to  the  .hobby- 
horse ;  but,  oh,  how  different  the  delight  of  this 
wild  gallop  with  flesh  and  blood  !  Just  as  his  legs 
were  beginning  to  feel  as  if  he  did  not  feel  them, 
the  Gypsy  boy  cried,  "  Lollo  !  "  Round  went  the 
pony  so  unceremoniously  that  with  as  little  cere- 
mony Jackanapes  clung  to  his  neck ;  and  he  did 
not  properly  recover  himself  before  Lollo  stopped 
with  a  jerk  at  the  place  where  they  had  started. 


30  JACKANAPES. 

"  Is  his  name  Lollo  ? "  asked  Jackanapes,  his 
hand  lingering  in  the  wiry  mane. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  does  Lollo  mean?  " 

"  Red." 

"  Is  Lollo  your  pony?  " 

"No.  My  father's."  And  the  Gypsy  boy  led 
Lollo  away. 

At  the  first  opportunity  Jackanapes  stole  away 
again  to  the  common.  This  time  he  saw  the 
Gypsy  father,  smoking  a  dirty  pipe. 

"Lollo  is  your  pony,  isn't  he?"  said  Jacka- 
napes. 

"  Yes." 

"  He  's  a  very  nice  one." 

"  He  's  a  racer." 

"  You  don't  want  to  sell  him,  do  you?  " 

"Fifteen  pounds,"  said  the  Gypsy  father;  and 
Jackanapes  sighed  and  went  home  again.  That 
very  afternoon  he  and  Tony  rode  the  two  donkeys ; 
and  Tony  managed  to  get  thrown,  and  even  Jacka- 
napes's donkey  kicked.  But  it  was  jolting,  clumsy 
work  after  the  elastic  swiftness  and  the  dainty 
mischief  of  the  red-haired  pony. 

A  few  days  later,  Miss  Jessamine  spoke  very 
seriously  to  Jackanapes.  She  was  a  good  deal 
agitated  as  she  told  him  that  his  grandfather  the 
General  was  coming  to  the  Green,  and  that  he 
must  be  on  his  very  best  behavior  during  the  visit. 
If  it  had  been  feasible  to    leave  off  calling  him 


THE   GENERAL.  3 I 

Jackanapes  and  to  get  used  to  his  baptismal  name 
of  Theodore  before  the  day  after  to-morrow 
(when  the  General  was  due),  it  would  have  been 
satisfactory.  But  Miss  Jessamine  feared  it  would 
be  impossible  in  practice,  and  she  had  scruples 
about  it  on  principle.  It  would  not  seem  quite 
truthful,  although  she  had  always  most  fully  in- 
tended that  he  should  be  called  Theodore  when 
he  had  outgrown  the  ridiculous  appropriateness  of 
his  nickname.  The  fact  was  that  he  had  not  out- 
grown it,  but  he  must  take  care  to  remember  who 
was  meant  when  his  grandfather  said  Theodore. 

Indeed,  for  that  matter  he  must  take  care  all 
along. 

"  You  are  apt  to  be  giddy,  Jackanapes,"  said 
Miss  Jessamine. 

"Yes,  aunt,"  said  Jackanapes,  thinking  of  the 
hobby-horses. 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  Jackanapes.  Thank  God, 
I  can  tell  your  grandfather  that.  An  obedient  boy, 
an  honorable  boy,  and  a  kind-hearted  boy.  But 
you  are  —  in  short,  you  are  a  Boy,  Jackanapes. 
And  I  hope,"  added  Miss  Jessamine,  desperate 
with  the  results  of  experience,  "  that  the  General 
knows  that  Boys  will  be  Boys." 

What  mischief  could  be  foreseen,  Jackanapes 
promised  to  guard  against.  He  was  to  keep  his 
clothes  and  his  hands  clean,  to  look  over  his  cate- 
chism, not  to  put  sticky  things  in  his  pockets,  to 
keep    that   hair   of  his   smooth    ("  It 's    the  wind 


32 


JACKANAPES. 


that  blows  it,  aunty,"  said  Jackanapes  —  "I  '11  send 
by  the  coach  for  some  bear's-grease,"  said  Miss 
Jessamine,  tying  a  knot  in  her  pocket-handker- 
chief), not  to  burst  in  at  the  parlor  door,  not  to 


talk  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  not  to  crumple  his 
Sunday  frill,  and  to  sit  quite  quiet  during  the 
sermon,  to  be  sure  to  say  "  sir  "  to  the  General,  to 
be  careful  about  rubbing  his  shoes  on  the  door-mat, 
and  to  bring  his  lesson-books  to  his  aunt  at  once 
that   she  might   iron   down   the   dogs'-ears.     The 


TWO   ARE   COMPANY.  33 

General  arrived  ;  and  for  the  first  day  all  went  well, 
except  that  Jackanapes's  hair  was  as  wild  as  usual, 
for  the  hair-dresser  had  no  bear's-grease  left.  He 
began  to  feel  more  at  ease  with  his  grandfather, 
and  disposed  to  talk  confidentially  with  him,  as  he 
did  with  the  Postman.  All  that  the  General  felt,  it 
would  take  too  long  to  tell ;  but  the  result  was  the 
same.  He  was  disposed  to  talk  confidentially  with 
Jackanapes. 

"  Mons'ous  pretty  place  this,"  he  said,  looking 
out  of  the  lattice  on  to  the  Green,  where  the  grass 
was  vivid  with  sunset  and  the  shadows  were  long 
and  peaceful. 

"  You  should  see  it  in  Fair-week,  sir,"  said  Jack- 
anapes, shaking  his  yellow  mop,  and  leaning  back 
in  his  one  of  the  two  Chippendale  arm-chairs  in 
which  they  sat. 

"  A  fine  time  that,  eh?"  said  the  General,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  left  eye  (the  other  was  glass). 

Jackanapes  shook  his  hair  once  more.  "  I  en- 
joyed this  last  one  the  best  of  all,"  he  said. 
"  I  'd  so  much  money." 

"By  George,  it's  not  a  common  complaint  in 
these  bad  times.     How  much  had  ye?" 

"  I  'd  two  shillings.  A  new  shilling  aunty  gave 
me,  and  elevenpence  I  had  saved  up,  and  a  penny 
from  the  Postman,  —  sir!*1  added  Jackanapes  with 
a  jerk,  having  forgotten  it. 

"  And  how  did  ye  spend  it,  —  sir?"  inquired  the 

General. 

3 


34  JACKANAPES. 

Jackanapes  spread  his  ten  fingers  on  the  arms  of 
his  chair,  and  shut  his  eyes  that  he  might  count 
the  more  conscientiously. 

"  Watch-stand  for  aunty,  threepence.  Trumpet 
for  myself,  twopence ;  that 's  fivepence.  Gingernuts 
for  Tony,  twopence,  and  a  mug  with  a  Grena- 
dier on  for  the  Postman,  fourpence;  that's  eleven- 
pence. Shooting-gallery  a  penny ;  that 's  a  shilling. 
Giddy-go-round,  a  penny;  that's  one  and  a  penny. 
Treating  Tony,  one  and  twopence.  Flying  Boats 
(Tony  paid  for  himself),  a  penny,  one  and  three- 
pence. Shooting-gallery  again,  one  and  fourpence ; 
Fat  Woman  a  penny,  one  and  fivepence.  Giddy- 
go-round  again,  one  and  sixpence.  Shooting-gal- 
lery, one  and  sevenpence.  Treating  Tony,  and  then 
he  would  n't  shoot,  so  I  did,  one  and  eightpence. 
Living  Skeleton,  a  penny  —  no,  Tony  treated  me, 
the  Living  Skeleton  does  n't  count.  Skittles,  a 
penny,  one  and  ninepence.  Mermaid  (but  when 
we  got  inside  she  was  dead),  a  penny,  one  and  ten- 
pence.  Theatre,  a  penny  (Priscilla  Partington,  or 
the  Green  Lane  Murder.  A  beautiful  young  lady, 
sir,  with  pink  cheeks  and  a  real  pistol) ;  that 's  one 
and  elevenpence.  Ginger  beer,  a  penny,  (I  was  so 
thirsty !)  two  shillings.  And  then  the  Shooting- 
gallery  man  gave  me  a  turn  for  nothing,  because, 
he  said,  I  was  a  real  gentleman,  and  spent  my 
money  like  a  man." 

"  So  you  do,  sir,  so  you  do  !  "  cried  the  General. 
"  Egad,  sir,  you  spent  it  like  a  prince.     And  now 


LOLLO.  35 

I  suppose  you've  not  got  a  penny  in  your 
pocket?" 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Jackanapes.  "  Two  pennies. 
They  are  saving  up."  And  Jackanapes  jingled 
them  with  his  hand. 

"  You  don't  want  money  except  at  Fair-times,  I 
suppose?"  said  the  General. 

Jackanapes  shook  his  mop. 

"  If  I  could  have  as  much  as  I  want,  I  should 
know  what  to  buy,"  said  he. 

"And  how  much  do  you  want,  if  you  could 
get  it?" 

"  Wait  a  minute,  sir,  till  I  think  what  twopence 
from  fifteen  pounds  leaves.  Two  from  nothing 
you  can't,  but  borrow  twelve.  Two  from  twelve, 
ten,  and  carry  one.  Please  remember  ten,  sir, 
when  I  ask  you.  One  from  nothing  you  can't, 
borrow  twenty.  One  from  twenty  nineteen,  and 
carry  one.  One  from  fifteen,  fourteen.  Fourteen 
pounds  nineteen  and  —  what  did  I  tell  you  to 
remember?  " 

"  Ten,"  said  the  General. 

"  Fourteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  ten- 
pence,  then,  is  what  I  want,"  said  Jackanapes. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  what  for?  " 

"To  buy  Lollo  with.  Lollo  means  red,  sir. 
The  Gypsy's  red-haired  pony,  sir.  Oh,  he  is  beau- 
tiful !  You  should  see  his  coat  in  the  sunshine  I 
You  should  see  his  mane !  You  should  see  his 
tail !     Such  little  feet,  sir,  and  they  go  like  light- 


2>6  JACKANAPES. 

ning!  Such  a  dear  face,  too,  and  eyes  like  a 
mouse !  But  he 's  a  racer,  and  the  Gypsy  wants 
fifteen  pounds  for  him." 

"  If  he  's  a  racer  you  could  n't  ride  him.  Could 
you?" 

"  No — o,  sir,  but  I  can  stick  to  him.  I  did  the 
other  day." 

"  The  dooce  you  did  !  Well,  I  'm  fond  of  riding 
myself;  and  if  the  beast  is  as  good  as  you  say,  he 
might  suit  me." 

"  You  're  too  tall  for  Lollo,  I  think,"  said  Jacka- 
napes, measuring  his  grandfather  with  his  eye. 

"  I  can  double  up  my  legs,  I  suppose.  We  '11 
have  a  look  at  him  to-morrow." 

4 

"  Don't  you  weigh  a  good  deal?  "asked  Jacka- 
napes. 

"  Chiefly  waistcoats,"  said  the  General,  slapping 
the  breast  of  his  military  frock-coat.  "  We  '11  have 
the  little  racer  on  the  Green  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  Glad  you  mentioned  it,  grandson ;  glad 
you  mentioned  it." 

The  General  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Next 
morning  the  Gypsy  and  Lollo,  Miss  Jessamine, 
Jackanapes  and  his  grandfather  and  his  dog  Spit- 
fire, were  all  gathered  at  one  end  of  the  Green  in 
a  group,  which  so  aroused  the  innocent  curiosity 
of  Mrs.  Johnson,  as  she  saw  it  from  one  of  her 
upper  windows,  that  she  and  the  children  took 
their  early  promenade  rather  earlier  than  usual. 
The  General  talked  to  the  Gypsy,  and  Jackanapes 


A   RIDE   FOR  A   RED-HAIRED   PONY.  3f 

fondled  Lollo's  mane,  and  did  not  know  whether 
he  should  be  more  glad  or  miserable  if  his  grand- 
father bought  him. 

"  Jackanapes !  " 

"  Yes,  sir  !  " 

"I've  bought  Lollo,  but  I  believe  you  were 
right.  He  hardly  stands  high  enough  for  me.  If 
you  can  ride  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  Green, 
I  '11  give  him  to  you." 

How  Jackanapes  tumbled  on  to  Lollo's  back  he 
never  knew.  He  had  just  gathered  up  the  reins 
when  the  Gypsy  father  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  If  you  want  to  make  Lollo  go  fast,  my  little 
gentleman  —  " 

"/  can  make  him  go!"  said  Jackanapes;  and 
drawing  from  his  pocket  the  trumpet  he  had 
bought  in  the  Fair,  he  blew  a  blast  both  loud  and 
shrill. 

Away  went  Lollo,  and  away  went  Jackanapes' 
hat.  His  golden  hair  flew  out,  an  aureole  from 
which  his  cheeks  shone  red  and  distended  with 
trumpeting.  Away  went  Spitfire,  mad  with  the 
rapture  of  the  race  and  the  wind  in  his  silky  ears. 
Away  went  the  geese,  the  cocks,  the  hens,  and 
the  whole  family  of  Johnson.  Lucy  clung  to  her 
mamma,  Jane  saved  Emily  by  the  gathers  of  her 
gown,  and  Tony  saved  himself  by  a  somersault. 

The  Gray  Goose  was  just  returning  when  Jack- 
anapes and  Lollo  rode  back,  Spitfire  panting 
behind. 


38 


JACKANAPES. 


"Good,  my  little  gentleman,  good  !•"  said  the 
Gypsy.  "  You  were  born  to  the  saddle.  You  've 
the  flat  thigh,  the  strong  knee,  the  wiry  back,  and 
the  light  caressing  hand ;  all  you  want  is  to  learn 
the  whisper.     Come  here  !  " 


"  What  was  that  dirty  fellow  talking  about, 
grandson?"  asked  the  General. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  sir.     It 's  a  secret." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  window  again,  in  the 
two  Chippendale  arm-chairs,  the  General  devour- 
ing every  line  of  his  grandson's  face,  with  strange 
spasms  crossing  his  own. 

"  You  must  love  your  aunt  very  much,  Jacka- 
napes? " 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Jackanapes,  warmly. 


ONE  THAT   MAKES   OLD   HEARTS   FRESH.       $g 

"  And  whom  do  you  love  next  best  to  your 
.aunt  ?  " 

The  ties  of  blood  were  pressing  very  strongly 
on  the  General  himself,  and  perhaps  he  thought 
of  Lollo.  But  love  is  not  bought  in  a  day,  even 
with  fourteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  ten- 
pence.  Jackanapes  answered  quite  readily,  "The 
Postman." 

"Why  the  Postman?" 

"  He  knew  my  father,"  said  Jackanapes,  "  and 
he  tells  me  about  him  and  about  his  black  mare. 
My  father  was  a  soldier,  a  brave  soldier.  He  died 
at  Waterloo.  When  I  grow  up  I  want  to  be  a 
soldier  too." 

"  So  you  shall,  my  boy;   so  you  shall." 

"  Thank  you,  grandfather.  Aunty  does  n't  want 
me  to  be  a  soldier,  for  fear  of  being  killed." 

"  Bless  my  life  !  Would  she  have  you  get  into 
a  feather-bed  and  stay  there?  Why,  you  might 
be  killed  by  a  thunderbolt  if  you  were  a  butter- 
merchant  !  " 

"  So  I  might.  I  shall  tell  her  so.  What  a 
funny  fellow  you  are,  sir !  I  say,  do  you  think 
my  father  knew  the  Gypsy's  secret  ?  The 
Postman  says  he  used  to  whisper  to  his  black 
mare." 

"  Your  father  was  taught  to  ride,  as  a  child,  by 
one  of  those  horsemen  of  the  East  who  swoop 
and  dart  and  wheel  about  a  plain  like  swallows 
in  autumn.     Grandson !    love  me    a  little   too.     I 


40  JACKANAPES. 

can  tell  you  more  about  your  father  than  the 
Postman  can." 

"  I  do  love  you,"  said  Jackanapes.  "  Before 
you  came  I  was  frightened.  I  'd  no  notion  you 
were  so  nice." 

"  Love  me  always,  boy,  whatever  I  do  or  leave 
undone.  And  —  God  help  me! — whatever  you 
do  or  leave  undone,  I  '11  love  you.  There  shall 
never  be  a  cloud  between  us  for  a  day;  no,  sir, 
not  for  an  hour.  We  're  imperfect  enough,  all  of 
us  —  we  need  n't  be  so  bitter;  and  life  is  uncertain 
enough  at  its  safest  —  we  need  n't  waste  its  oppor- 
tunities. God  bless  my  soul !  Here  sit  I,  after 
a  dozen  battles  and  some  of  the  worst  climates  in 
the  world,  and  by  yonder  lych  gate  lies  your 
mother,  who  did  n't  move  five  miles,  I  suppose, 
from  your  aunt's  apron-strings,  —  dead  in  her 
teens ;  my  golden-haired  daughter,  whom  I  never 
saw !  " 

Jackanapes  was  terribly  troubled. 

"  Don't  cry,  grandfather,"  he  pleaded,  his  own 
blue  eyes  round  with  tears.  "  I  will  love  you 
very  much,  and  I  will  try  to  be  very  good.  But 
I  should  like  to  be  a  soldier." 

"You  shall,  my  boy;  you  shall.  You've  more 
claims  for  a  commission  than  you  know  of. 
Cavalry,  I  suppose;  eh,  ye  young  Jackanapes? 
Well,  well ;  if  you  live  to  be  an  honor  to  your 
country,  this  old  heart  shall  grow  young  again 
with  pride  for  you ;   and  if  you  die  in  the  service 


A   GRANDFATHER  S   EMOTION.  4 1 

of  your  country  —  egad,  sir,  it  can  but  break  for 
ye!" 

And  beating  the  region  which  he  said  was  all 
waistcoats,  as  if  they  stifled  him,  the  old  man  got 
up  and  strode  out  on  to  the  Green. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friends. — John  xv.  13. 


WENTY  and  odd  years  later  the  Gray 
Goose  was  still  alive,  and  in  full  pos- 
session of  her  faculties,  such  as  they  were.  She 
lived  slowly  and  carefully,  and  she  lived  long.  So 
did  Miss  Jessamine ;   but  the  General  was  dead. 

He  had  lived  on  the  Green  for  many  years,  dur- 
ing which  he  and  the  Postman  saluted  each  other 


COMMISSIONS   FOR   TWO.  43 

with  a  punctiliousness  that  it  almost  drilled  one  to 
witness.  He  would  have  completely  spoiled  Jack- 
anapes if  Miss  Jessamine's  conscience  would  have 
let  him ;  otherwise  he  somewhat  dragooned  his 
neighbors,  and  was  as  positive  about  parish  mat- 
ters as  a  ratepayer  about  the  army.  A  stormy- 
tempered,  tender-hearted  soldier,  irritable  with  the 
suffering  of  wounds  of  which  he  never  spoke, 
whom  all  the  village  followed  to  his  grave  with 
tears. 

The  General's  death  was  a  great  shock  to  Miss 
Jessamine,  and  her  nephew  stayed  with  her  for 
some  little  time  after  the  funeral.  Then  he  was 
obliged  to  join  his  regiment,  which  was  ordered 
abroad. 

One  effect  of  the  conquest  which  the  General 
had  gained  over  the  affections  of  the  village  was 
a  considerable  abatement  of  the  popular  preju- 
dice against  "the  military."  Indeed,  the  village 
was  now  somewhat  importantly  represented  in 
the  army.  There  was  the  General  himself,  and  the 
Postman,  and  the  Black  Captain's  tablet  in  the 
church,  and  Jackanapes,  and  Tony  Johnson,  and  a 
Trumpeter. 

Tony  Johnson  had  no  more  natural  taste  for 
fighting  than  for  riding,  but  he  was  as  devoted  as 
ever  to  Jackanapes.  And  that  was  how  it  came 
about  that  Mr.  Johnson  bought  him  a  commission 
in  the  same  cavalry  regiment  that  the  General's 
grandson  (whose  commission  had  been  given  him 


44  JACKANAPES. 

by  the  Iron  Duke)  was  in ;  and  that  he  was  quite 
content  to  be  the  butt  of  the  mess  where  Jack- 
anapes was  the  hero;  and  that  when  Jackanapes 
wrote  home  to  Miss  Jessamine,  Tony  wrote  with 
the  same  purpose  to  his  mother,  —  namely,  to 
demand  her  congratulations  that  they  were  on 
active  service  at  last,  and  were  ordered  to  the 
front.  And  he  added  a  postscript,  to  the  effect 
that  she  could  have  no  idea  how  popular  Jack- 
anapes was,  nor  how  splendidly  he  rode  the  won- 
derful red  charger  which  he  had  named  after  his 
old  friend  Lollo. 

"  Sound  Retire  !  " 

A  Boy  Trumpeter,  grave  with  the  weight  of 
responsibilities  and  accoutrements  beyoncl  his 
years,  and  stained  so  that  his  own  mother  would 
not  have  known  him,  with  the  sweat  and  dust  of 
battle,  did  as  he  was  bid ;  and  then,  pushing  his 
trumpet  pettishly  aside,  adjusted  his  weary  legs  for 
the  hundredth  time  to  the  horse  which  was  a  world 
too  big  for  him,  and  muttering,  "  'T  ain  't  a  pretty 
tune,"  tried  to  see  something  of  this  his  first  en- 
gagement before  it  came  to  an  end. 

Being  literally  in  the  thick  of  it,  he  could  hardly 
have  seen  less  or  known  less  of  what  happened  in 
that  particular  skirmish  if  he  had  been  at  home  in 
England.  For  many  good  reasons,  —  including  dust 
and  smoke,  and  that  what  attention  he  dared  dis- 
tract from  his  commanding  officer  was  pretty  well 


THE   BOY  TRUMPETER. 


45 


absorbed  by  keeping  his  hard-mouthed  troop-horse 
in  hand,  under  pain  of  execration  by  his  neighbors 
in  the  melee.  By  and  by,  when  the  newspapers 
came  out,  if  he  could  get  a  look  at  one  before  it 
was  thumbed  to  bits,  he  would  learn  that  the 
enemy  had  appeared  from  ambush  in  overwhelm- 


ing numbers,  and  that  orders  had  been  given  to 
fall  back,  which  was  done  slowly  and  in  good  order, 
the  men  fighting  as  they  retired. 

Born  and  bred  on  the  Goose  Green,  the  young- 
est of  Mr.  Johnson's  gardener's  numerous  off- 
spring, the  boy  had  given  his  family  "  no  peace  " 
till  they  let  him  "go  for  a  soldier"  with  Master 


46  JACKANAPES. 

Tony  and  Master  Jackanapes.  They  consented  at 
last,  with  more  tears  than  they  shed  when  an  elder 
son  was  sent  to  jail  for  poaching;  and  the  boy  was 
perfectly  happy  in  his  life,  and  full  of  esprit  de 
corps.  It  was  this  which  had  been  wounded  by 
having  to  sound  retreat  for  "  the  young  gentle- 
men's regiment,"  the  first  time  he  served  with  it 
before  the  enemy;  and  he  was  also  harassed  by 
having  completely  lost  sight  of  Master  Tony. 
There  had  been  some  hard  fighting  before  the 
backward  movement  began,  and  he  had  caught 
sight  of  him  once,  but  not  since.  On  the  other 
hand,  all  the  pulses  of  his  village  pride  had  been 
stirred  by  one  or  two  visions  of  Master  Jackanapes 
whirling  about  on  his  wonderful  horse.  He  had 
been  easy  to  distinguish,  since  an  eccentric  blow 
had  bared  his  head  without  hurting  it ;  for  his 
close  golden  mop  of  hair  gleamed  in  the  hot  sun- 
shine as  brightly  as  the  steel  of  the  sword  flash- 
ing round  it. 

Of  the  missiles  that  fell  pretty  thickly,  the  Boy 
Trumpeter  did  not  take  much  notice.  First,  one 
can't  attend  to  everything,  and  his  hands  were  full ; 
secondly,  one  gets  used  to  anything;  thirdly, 
experience  soon  teaches  one,  in  spite  of  proverbs, 
how  very  few  bullets  find  their  billet.  Far  more 
unnerving  is  the  mere  suspicion  of  fear  or  even  of 
anxiety  in  the  human  mass  around  you.  The  Boy 
was  beginning  to  wonder  if  there  were  any  dark 
reason    for   the  increasing  pressure,   and  whether 


TONY S   LUCK.  47 

they  would  be  allowed  to  move  back  more  quickly, 
when  the  smoke  in  front  lifted  for  a  moment,  and 
he  could  see  the  plain,  and  the  enemy's  line  some 
two  hundred  yards  away.  And  across  the  plain - 
between  them,  he  saw  Master  Jackanapes  galloping 
alone  at  the  top  of  Lollo's  speed,  their  faces  to  the 
enemy,  his  golden  head  at  Lollo's  ear. 

But  at  this  moment  noise  and  smoke  seemed  to 
burst  out  on  every  side ;  the  officer  shouted  to  him 
to  sound  Retire !  and  between  trumpeting  and 
bumping  about  on  his  horse,  he  saw  and  heard  no 
more  of  the  incidents  of  his  first  battle. 

Tony  Johnson  was  always  unlucky  with  horses, 
from  the  days  of  the  giddy-go-round  onwards. 
On  this  day  —  of  all  days  in  the  year  —  his  own 
horse  was  on  the  sick  list,  and  he  had  to  ride  an 
inferior,  ill-conditioned  beast,  and  fell  off  that,  at 
the  very  moment  when  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or 
death  to  be  able  to  ride  away.  The  horse  fell  on 
him,  but  struggled  up  again,  and  Tony  managed 
to  keep  hold  of  it.  It  was  in  trying  to  remount 
that  he  discovered,  by  helplessness  and  anguish, 
that  one  of  his  legs  was  crushed  and  broken,  and  that 
no  feat  of  which  he  was  master  would  get  him 
into  the  saddle.  Not  able  even  to  stand  alone, 
awkwardly,  agonizingly,  unable  to  mount  his  res- 
tive horse,  his  life  was  yet  so  strong  within  him ! 
And  on  one  side  of  him  rolled  the  dust  and 
smoke-cloud  of  his  advancing  foes,  and  on  the 
other,  that  which  covered  his  retreating  friends. 


48  JACKANAPES. 

He  turned  one  piteous  gaze  after  them,  with  a 
bitter  twinge,  not  of  reproach,  but  of  loneliness ; 
and  then,  dragging  himself  up  by  the  side  of 
his  horse,  he  turned  the  other  way  and  drew  out 
his  pistol,  and  waited  for  the  end.  Whether  he 
waited  seconds  or  minutes  he  never  knew,  before 
some  one  gripped  him  by  the  arm. 

"Jackanapes!  God  bless  you!  It's  my  left 
leg.     If  you  could  get  me  on  —  " 

It  was  like  Tony's  luck  that  his  pistol  went  off 
at  his  horse's  tail,  and  made  it  plunge ;  but  Jack- 
anapes threw  him  across  the  saddle. 

"  Hold  on  anyhow,  and  stick  your  spur  in.  I  '11 
lead  him.  Keep  your  head  down ;  they  're  firing 
high." 

And  Jackanapes  laid  his  head  down  —  to  Lollo's 
ear. 

It  was  when  they  were  fairly  off,  that  a  sudden 
upspringing  of  the  enemy  in  all  directions  had 
made  it  necessary  to  change  the  gradual  retire- 
ment of  our  force  into  as  rapid  a  retreat  as  possi- 
ble. And  when  Jackanapes  became  aware  of  this, 
and  felt  the  lagging  and  swerving  of  Tony's  horse, 
he  began  to  wish  he  had  thrown  his  friend  across 
his  own  saddle  and  left  their  lives  to  Lollo. 

When  Tony  became  aware  of  it,  several  things 
came  into  his  head:  I.  That  the  dangers  of  their 
ride  for  life  were  now  more  than  doubled;  2.  That 
if  Jackanapes  and  Lollo  were  not  burdened  with 
him    they   would    undoubtedly   escape;     3.  That 


A  RIDE   FOR  LIFE.  49 

Jackanapes'  life  was  infinitely  valuable,  and  his  — 
Tony's  —  was  not;  4.  That  this,  if  he  could  seize 
it,  was  the  supremest  of  all  the  moments  in 
which  he  had  tried  to  assume  the  virtues  which 
Jackanapes  had  by  nature ;  and  that  if  he  could 
be  courageous  and  unselfish  now  — 

He  caught  at  his  own  reins  and  spoke  very 
loud,  — 

"  Jackanapes !  It  won't  do.  You  and  Lollo 
must  go  on.  Tell  the  fellows  I  gave  you  back  to 
them  with  all  my  heart.  Jackanapes,  if  you  love 
me,  leave  me  ! " 

There  was  a  daffodil  light  over  the  evening  sky 
in  front  of  them,  and  it  shone  strangely  on  Jacka- 
napes' hair  and  face.  He  turned  with  an  odd  look 
in  his  eyes  that  a  vainer  man  than  Tony  Johnson 
might  have  taken  for  brotherly  pride.  Then  he 
shook  his  mop,  and  laughed  at  him. 

"  Leave  yoa  ?  To  save  my  skin  ?  No,  Tony, 
not  to  save  my  soul !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 


Mr.  Valiant  summoned.    His  Will.    His  last  Words.  ' 

Then  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  my  Father's.  .  .  .  My  Sword  I  give  to 
him  that  shall  succeed  me  in  my  Pilgrimage,  and  my  Courage  and  Skill 
to  him  that  can  get  it."  .  .  .  And  as  he  went  down  deeper,  he  said, 
"  Grave,  where  is  thy  Victory  ?  " 

So  he  passed  over,  and  all  the  Trumpets  sounded  for  him  on  the  other 
tide. 

Bunyan  :  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

CMING  out  of  a 
hospital  tent,  at 
headquarters,  the 
surgeon  cannoned 
against,  and  re- 
bounded from, 
another  officer,  — 
a  sallow  man,  not 


young, 


with 


face    worn     more 
by    ungentle    ex- 
periences than  by 
age,    with   weary 
eyes  that  kept  their  own  counsel,  iron-gray  hair, 
and   a  mustache  that  was  as  if  a  raven  had   laid 
its  wing  across  his  lips  and  sealed  them. 
"Well?" 
"  Beg   pardon,   Major.     Did  n't  see  you.      Oh, 


THE   RESULT  OF  THAT   RIDE.  5 1 

compound  fracture  and  bruises.  But  it's  all  right; 
he  '11  pull  through." 

"  Thank  God." 

It  was  probably  an  involuntary  expression ;  for 
prayer  and  praise  were  not  much  in  the  Major's 
line,  as  a  jerk  of  the  surgeon's  head  would  have 
betrayed  to  an  observer.  He  was  a  bright  little 
man,  with  his  feelings  showing  all  over  him,  but 
with  gallantry  and  contempt  of  death  enough  for 
both  sides  of  his  profession ;  who  took  a  cool 
head,  a  white  handkerchief,  and  a  case  of  instru- 
ments, where  other  men  went  hot-blooded  with 
weapons,  and  who  was  the  biggest  gossip,  male  or 
female,  of  the  regiment.  Not  even  the  Major's 
taciturnity  daunted   him. 

"  Did  n't  think  he  'd  as  much  pluck  about  him 
as  he  has.  He  '11  do  all  right  if  he  does  n't  fret 
himself  into   a  fever  about  poor  Jackanapes." 

"Whom  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  the 
Major,   hoarsely. 

"  Young  Johnson.     He — " 

"  What  about  Jackanapes?  " 

"Don't  you  know?  Sad  business.  Rode  back 
for  Johnson,  and  brought  him  in ;  but,  monstrous 
ill-luck,  hit  as  they  rode.     Left  lung  — " 

"Will  he  recover?  " 

"  No.  Sad  business.  What  a  frame  —  what 
limbs  —  what  health — and  what  good  looks! 
Finest  young  fellow  — " 

"Where  is  he?" 


g2  JACKANAPES. 

"  In  his  own  tent,"  said  the  surgeon,  sadly. 

The  Major  wheeled  and  left  him. 

•         • 

"  Can  I  do  anything  else  for  you?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.  Except  —  Major !  1 
wish  I  could  get  you  to  appreciate  Johnson." 

"  This  is  not  an  easy  moment,  Jackanapes." 

"Let  me  tell  you,  sir  —  he  never  will  —  that  if 
he  could  have  driven  me  from  him,  he  would  be 
lying  yonder  at  this  moment,  and  I  should  be  safe 
and  sound." 

The  Major  laid  his  hand  over  his  mouth,  as  if  to 
keep  back  a  wish  he  would  have  been  ashamed 
to  utter. 

"I've  known  old  Tony  from  a  child.  He's  a 
fool  on  impulse,  a  good  man  and  a  gentleman  in 
principle.  And  he  acts  on  principle,  which  it's 
not  every  —  Some  water,  please !  Thank  you, 
sir.  It's  very  hot,  and  yet  one's  feet  get  uncom- 
monly cold.  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you.  He  's  no 
fire-eater,  but  he  has  a  trained  conscience  and  a 
tender  heart,  and  he  '11  do  his  duty  when  a  braver 
and  more  selfish  man  might  fail  you.  But  he 
wants  encouragement;   and  when  I  'm  gone  —  " 

"  He  shall  have  encouragement.  You  have  my 
word  for  it.     Can  I  do  nothing  else?  " 

"  Yes,  Major.      A  favor." 

"  Thank  you,  Jackanapes." 

"  Be  Lollo's  master,  and  love  him  as  well  as  you 
can.     He's  used  to  it." 


HIS    LAST   WORDS.  53 

"Would  n't  you  rather  Johnson  had  him?" 

The  blue  eyes  twinkled  in  spite  of  mortal  pain. 

"  Tony  rides  on  principle,  Major.  His  legs  are 
bolsters,  and  will  be  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
I  couldn't  insult  dear  Lollo;  but  if  you  don't 
care  —  " 

"While  I  live  —  which  will  be  longer  than  I  de- 
sire or  deserve  —  Lollo  shall  want  nothing  but  — 
you.  I  have  too  little  tenderness  for —  My  dear 
boy,  you  're  faint.  Can  you  spare  me  for  a 
moment?  " 

"No,  stay —     Major!" 

"What?     What?" 

"  My  head  drifts  so  —  if  you  would  n't  mind." 

"  Yes  !     Yes  !  " 

"  Say  a  prayer  by  me.  Out  loud,  please  ;  I  am 
getting  deaf." 

"  My  dearest  Jackanapes  —  my  dear  boy  —  " 

"  One  of  the  Church  Prayers  —  Parade  Service, 
you  know  —  " 

"  I  s^e.  But  the  fact  is  —  God  forgive  me, 
Jackaviapes  !  —  I'm  a  very  different  sort  of  fellow 
to  some-  of  you  youngsters.  Look  here,  let  me 
fetch  —  " 

But  Jackanapes'  hand  was  in  his,  and  it  would 
not  let  go. 

There  was  a  brief  and  bitter  silence. 

"  'Pon  my  soul,  I  can  only  remember  the  little 
one  at  the  end." 

"  Please,"  whispered  Jackanapes. 


54  JACKANAPES. 

Pressed  by  the  conviction  that  what  little  he 
could  do  it  was  his  duty  to  do,  the  Major,  kneel- 
ing, bared  his  head,  and  spoke  loudly,  clearly,  and 
very  reverently,  — 

"  The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  —  " 

Jackanapes  moved  his  left  hand  to  his  right  one, 
which  still  held  the  Major's  — 

"The  love  of  God—  " 

And  with  that  —  Jackanapes  died. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Und  so  ist  der  blaue  Himmel  grosser  als  jedea 
Gewolk  darin,  und  dauerhafter  dazu. 

Jean  Paul  Richter. 


ACKANAPES'  death  was  sad 
news  for  the  Goose  Green,  a 
sorrow  just  qualified  by  honor- 
able pride  in  his  gallantry  and 
devotion.  Only  the  Cobbler 
dissented  ;  but  that  was  his  way. 
He  said  he  saw  nothing  in  it  but 
foolhardiness  and  vainglory.  They  might  both 
have  been  killed,  as  easy  as  not ;  and  then  where 
would  ye  have  been?  A  man's  life  was  a  man's 
life,  and  one  life  was  as  good  as  another.  No  one 
would  catch  him  throwing  his  away.  And,  for 
that  matter,  Mrs.  Johnson  could  spare  a  child  a 
great  deal  better  than  Miss  Jessamine. 

But  the  parson  preached  Jackanapes'  funeral 
sermon  on  the  text,  "Whosoever  will  save  his  life 
shall  lose  it,  and  whosoever  will  lose  his  life  for 
my  sake  shall  find  it ; "  and  all  the  village  went 
and  wept  to  hear  hirn. 


56 


JACKANAPES. 


Nor  did  Miss  Jessamine  see  her  loss  from  the 
Cobbler's  point  of  view.  On  the  contrary,  Mrs. 
Johnson  said  she  never  to  her  dying  day  should 
forget  how,  when  she  went  to  condole  with  her,  the 
old  lady  came  forward,  with  gentlewomanly  self- 


control,  and  kissed  her,  and  thanked  God  that  her 
dear  nephew's  effort  had  been  blessed  with  success, 
and  that  this  sad  war  had  made  no  gap  in  her 
friend's  large  and  happy  home-circle. 

"  But  she  's  a  noble,  unselfish  woman,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Johnson,  "  and  she  taught  Jackanapes  to  be 
the  same ;  and  that 's  how  it  is  that  my  Tony  has 
been  spared  to  me.  And  it  must  be  sheer  good- 
ness in  Miss  Jessamine,  for  what  can  she  know  of 
a  mother's  feelings?     And  I'm  sure  most  people 


LOLLO  THE  FIRST.  57 

seem  to  think  that  if  you  've  a  large  family  you 
don't  know  one  from  another  any  more  than  they 
do,  and  that  a  lot  of  children  are  like  a  lot  of  store 
apples,  —  if  one's  taken  it  won't  be  missed." 

L0ll0_the  first  Lollo,  the  Gypsy's  Lollo  — very 
aged,  draws  Miss  Jessamine's  bath-chair  slowly  up 
and  down  the  Goose  Green  in  the  sunshine. 

The  Ex-postman  walks  beside  him,  which  Lollo 
tolerates  to  the  level  of  his  shoulder.  If  the  Post- 
man advances  any  nearer  to  his  head,  Lollo  quick- 
ens his  pace ;  and  were  the  Postman  to  persist  in 
the  injudicious  attempt,  there  is,  as  Miss  Jessamine 
says,  no  knowing  what  might  happen. 

In  the  opinion  of  the  Goose  Green,  Miss  Jessa- 
mine has  borne  her  troubles  "  wonderfully."  In- 
deed, to-day,  some  of  the  less  delicate  and  less 
intimate  of  those  who  see  everything  from  the 
upper  windows  say  (well,  behind  her  back)  that 
"  the  old  lady  seems  quite  lively  with  her  military 
beaux  again."  - 

The  meaning  of  this  is,  that  Captain  Johnson  is 
leaning  over  one  side  of  her  chair,  while  by  the 
.other  bends  a  brother  officer  who  is  staying  with 
him,  and  who  has  manifested  an  extraordinary 
interest  in  Lollo.  He  bends  lower  and  lower,  and 
Miss  Jessamine  calls  to  the  Postman  to  request 
Lollo  to  be  kind  enough  to  stop,  while  she  is 
fumbling  for  something  which  always  hangs  by  her 
side,  and  has  got  entangled  with  her  spectacles. 
It  is  a  twopenny  trumpet,  bought  years  ago  in 


58 


JACKANAPES. 


the  village  fair;  and  over  it  she  and  Captain  John- 
son tell,  as  best  they  can,  between  them,  the  story 
of  Jackanapes'  ride  across  the  Goose  Green ;  and 
how  he  won  Lollo  —  the  Gypsy's  Lollo  —  the  racer 
Lollo — dear    Lollo  —  faithful   Lollo  —  Lollo    the 


never  vanquished  —  Lollo  the  tender  servant  of  his 
old  mistress.  And  Lollo's  ears  twitch  at  every 
mention  of  his  name. 

Their  hearer  does  not  speak,  but  he  never  moves 
his  eyes  from  the  trumpet;  and  when  the  tale  is  told, 
he  lifts  Miss  Jessamine's  hand  and  presses  his  heavy 
black  mustache  in  silence  to  her  trembling  fingers. 


DAS    SICHTBARE    1ST  ZEITLICH.  59 

The  sun,  setting  gently  to  his  rest,  embroiders 
the  sombre  foliage  of  the  oak-tree  with  threads  of 
gold.  The  Gray  Goose  is  sensible  of  an  atmos- 
phere of  repose,  and  puts  up  one  leg  for  the  night. 
The  grass  glows  with  a  more  vivid  green,  and,  in 
answer  to  a  ringing  call  from  Tony,  his  sisters 
fluttering  over  the  daisies  in  pale-hued  muslins, 
come  out  of  their  ever-open  door,  like  pretty 
pigeons  from  a  dovecote. 

And  if  the  good  gossips'  eyes  do  not  deceive 
them,  all  the  Miss  Johnsons  and  both  the  officers 
go  wandering  off  into  the  lanes,  where  bryony 
wreaths  still  twine  about  the  brambles. 

A  sorrowful  story,  and  ending  badly? 

Nay,  Jackanapes,  for  the  End  is  not  yet. 

A  life  wasted  that  might  have  been  useful? 

Men  who  have  died  for  men,  in  all  ages,  forgive 
the  thought ! 

There  is  a  heritage  of  heroic  example  and  noble 
obligation,  not  reckoned  in  the  Wealth  of  Nations, 
but  essential  to  a  nation's  life;  the  contempt  of 
which,  in  any  people,  may,  not  slowly,  mean  even 
its  commercial  fall. 

Very  sweet  are  the  uses  of  prosperity,  the  har- 
vests of  peace  and  progress,  the  fostering  sunshine 
of  health  and  happiness,  and  length  of  days  in  the 
land. 

But  there  be  things  —  oh,  sons  of  what  has  de- 
served the  name  of  Great  Britain,  forget  it  not !  — 


60  JACKANAPES. 

"the  good  of"  which  and  "the  use  of"  which  are 
beyond  all  calculation  of  worldly  goods  and  earthly 
uses :  things  such  as  Love,  and  Honor,  and  the 
Soul  of  Man,  which  cannot  be  bought  with  a  price, 
and  which  do  not  die  with  death.  And  they  who 
would  fain  live  happily  ever  after  should  not  leave 
these  things  out  of  the  lessons  of  their  lives. 


DADDY     DARWIN'S     DOVECOT. 


DADDY  BARWflJf 
GOT  \ 

A  Country  Tale    lay 

JwMAMA  teAtlA  £WiDTMI^T 


BOSTON 
ROBERTS      BROTHERS 

1889 


PREAMBLE. 


"'Ulh 


SUMMER'S  afternoon.  Early 
in  the  summer,  and  late  in 
the  afternoon ;  with  odors 
and  colors  deepening,  and 
shadows  lengthening,  tow- 
ards evening. 

Two  gaffers  gossiping, 
seated  side  by  side  upon  a 
Yorkshire  wall.  A  wall  of 
sandstone  of  many  colors, 
glowing  redder  and  yel- 
lower as  the  sun  goes  down ; 
well  cushioned  with  moss  and  lichen,  and  deep  set  in 
rank  grass  on  this  side,  where  the  path  runs,  and  in 
blue  hyacinths  on  that  side,  where  the  wood  is,  and 
where — on  the  gray  and  still  naked  branches  of 
young  oaks  —  sit  divers  crows,  not  less  solemn  than 
the  gaffers,  and  also  gossiping. 

One  gaffer  in  work-day  clothes,  not  unpicturesque 
of  form  and  hue.  Gray,  home-knit  stockings,  and 
coat  and  knee-breeches  of  corduroy,  which  takes  tints 
from  Time  and  Weather  as  harmoniously  as  wooden 
palings  do  ;   so  that  field  laborers  (like  some  insects) 


6  DARBY  AND   JOAN. 

seem  to  absorb  or  mimic  the  colors  of  the  vegetation 
round  them  and  of  their  native  soil.  That  is,  on 
work-days.  Sunday-best  is  a  different  matter,  and  in 
this  the  other  gaffer  was  clothed.  He  was  dressed 
like  the  crows  above  him,  Jit  excepted:  the  reason  for 
which  was,  that  he  was  only  a  visitor,  a  revisitor  to 
the  home  of  his  youth,  and  wore  his  Sunday  (and 
funeral)  suit  to  mark  the  holiday. 

Continuing  the  path,  a  stone  pack-horse  track, 
leading  past  a  hedge  snow-white  with  may,  and  down 
into  a  little  wood,  from  the  depths  of  which  one 
could  hear  a  brook  babbling.  Then  up  across  the 
sunny  field  beyond,  and  yet  up  over  another  field  to 
where  the  brow  of  the  hill  is  crowned  by  old  farm- 
buildings  standing  against  the  sky. 

Down  this  stone  path  a  young  man  going  whistling 
home  to  tea.  Then  staying  to  bend  a  swarthy  face  to 
the  white  may  to  smell  it,  and  then  plucking  a  huge 
branch  on  which  the  blossom  lies  like  a  heavy  fall 
of  snow,  and  throwing  that  aside  for  a  better,  and 
tearing  off  another  and  yet  another,  with  the  prodigal 
recklessness  of  a  pauper;  and  so,  whistling,  on  into 
the  wood  with  his  arms  full. 

Down  the  sunny  field,  as  he  goes  up  it,  a  woman 
coming  to  meet  him  —  with  her  arms  full.  Filled  by 
a  child  with  a  may-white  frock,  and  hair  shining  with 
the  warm  colors  of  the  sandstone.  A  young  woman, 
having  a  fair  forehead  visible  a  long  way  off,  and 
buxom  cheeks,  and  steadfast  eyes.  When  they  meet 
he  kisses  her,  and  she  pulls  his  dark  hair  and  smooths 


GAFFERS   GOSSIPING.  J 

her  own,  and  cuffs  him  in  country  fashion.  Then 
they  change  burdens,  and  she  takes  the  may  into  her 
apron  (stooping  to  pick  up  fallen  bits),  and  the 
child  sits  on  the  man's  shoulder,  and  cuffs  and  lugs 
its  father  as  the  mother  did,  and  is  chidden  by  her 
and  kissed  by  him.  And  all  the  babbling  of  their 
chiding  and  crowing  and  laughter  comes  across  the 
babbling  of  the  brook  to  the  ears  of  the  old  gaffers 
gossiping  on  the  wall. 

Gaffer  I.  spits  out  an  over-munched  stalk  of 
meadow  soft-grass,  and  speaks: 

"  D'  ye  see  yon  chap?  " 

Gaffer  II.  takes  up  his  hat  and  wipes  it  round  with 
a  spotted  handkerchief  (for  your  Sunday  hat  is  a 
heating  thing  for  work-day  wear)  and  puts  it  on,  and 
makes  reply: 

"  Aye.  But  he  beats  me.  And  —  see  thee  !  — he  's 
t'  first  that's  beat  me  yet.  Why,  lad!  I've  met 
young  chaps  to-day  I  could  ha'  sworn  to  for  mates 
of  mine  forty  year  back  —  if  I  had  n't  ha'  been  i'  t' 
churchyard  spelling  over  their  fathers'  tumstuns  !  " 

"  Aye.  There  's  a  many  old  standards  gone  home 
o'  lately." 

"  What  do  they  call  him  ?  " 

"  T' young  chap?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  They  call  him  —  Darwin." 

"  Dar  —  win?  I  should  know  a  Darwin.  They're 
old  standards,  is  Darwins.  What's  he  to  Daddy 
Darwin  of  t'  Dovecot  yonder?" 


8  GAFFERS   GOSSIPING. 

"  He  owns  t'  Dovecot.     Did  ye  see  t'  lass?" 

"Aye.     Shoo  's  his  missus,  I  reckon?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  What  did  they  call  her?  " 

"Phoebe  Shaw  they  called  her.  And  if  she'd  been 
my  lass —  but  that's  nother  here  nor  there,  and  he's 
got  t'  Dovecot." 

"  Shaw?  They're  old  standards,  is  Shaws.  Phoebe? 
They  called  her  mother  Phoebe.  Phoebe  Johnson. 
She  were  a  dainty  lass !  My  father  were  very  fond 
of  Phoebe  Johnson.  He  said  she  alius  put  him  i' 
mind  of  our  orchard  on  drying  days;  pink  and 
white  apple-blossom  and  clean  clothes.  And  yon  's 
her  daughter?  Where  d'  ye  say  t'  young  chap  come 
from?     He  don't  look  like  hereabouts." 

"  He  don't  come  from  hereabouts.  And  yet  he  do 
come  from  hereabouts,  as  one  may  say.  Look  ye 
here.  He  come  from  t'  wukhus.  That's  the  short 
and  the  long  of  it." 

"  The  workhouse  f '" 

"  Aye." 

Stupefaction.  The  crows  chattering  wildly  over- 
head. 

"  And  he  owns  Darwin's  Dovecot?  " 

"  He  owns  Darwin's  Dovecot." 

"  And  how  i'  t'  name  o'  all  things  did  that  come 
about?" 

"Why,  I  '11  tell  thee.     It  was  i'  this  fashion." 

•  •  •  ■  • 

Not  without  reason  does  the  wary  writer  put  gossip 


THE  LONG  AND  THE  SHORT  OF  IT.       9 

in  the  mouths  of  gaffers  rather  than  of  gammers. 
Male  gossips  love  scandal  as  dearly  as  female  gossips 
do,  and  they  bring  to  it  the  stronger  relish  and  ener- 
gies of  their  sex.  But  these  were  country  gaffers, 
whose  speech  —  like  shadows  —  grows  lengthy  in  the 
leisurely  hours  of  eventide.  The  gentle  reader  shall 
have  the  tale  in  plain  narration. 


Note.  —  It  will  be  plain  to  the  reader  that  the  birds  here  described 
are  Rooks  (corvus  frugilegus),  I  have  allowed  myself  to  speak  of 
them  by  their  generic  or  family  name  of  Crow,  this  being  a  common 
country  practice.  The  genus  corvus,  or  Crcnu,  includes  the  Raven,  the 
Carrion  Crow,  the  Hooded  Crow,  the  Jackdaw,  and  the  Rook. 


SCENE    I. 


NE  Saturday  night  (some  eighteen 
years  earlier  than  the  date  of  this 
gaffer  -  gossiping)  the  parson's 
daughter  sat  in  her  own 
room  before  the  open 
drawer  of  a  bandy-legged 
black  oak  table,  balancing 
her  bags.  The  bags  were 
money-bags,  and  the  mat- 
ter shall  be  made  clear  at 
once. 

In  this  parish,  as  in 
others,  progress  and  the 
multiplication  of  weapons  with  which  civilization  and 
the  powers  of  goodness  push  their  conquests  over 
brutality  and  the  powers  of  evil,  had  added  to  the 
original  duties  of  the  parish  priest,  a  multifarious  and 
all  but  impracticable  variety  of  offices ;  which,  in  ordi- 
nary and  laic  conditions,  would  have  been  performed 
by  several  more  or  less  salaried  clerks,  bankers,  ac- 
countants, secretaries,  librarians,  club-committees, 
teachers,  lecturers,  discount-for-ready-money  dealers 
in  clothing,  boots,  blankets,  and  coal,  domestic-ser- 


BAG-KEEPING   V.   BOOK-KEEPING.  II 

vant  agencies,  caterers  for  the  public  amusement,  and 
preservers  of  the  public  peace. 

The  country  parson  (no  less  than  statesmen  and 
princes,  than  men  of  science  and  of  letters)  is  respon- 
sible for  a  great  deal  of  his  work  that  is  really  done 
by  the  help-mate  —  woman.  This  explains  why  five 
out  of  the  young  lady's  money-bags  bore  the  follow- 
ing inscriptions  in  marking-ink :  "  Savings  bank," 
"Clothing  club,"  "Library,"  "Magazines  and  hymn- 
books,"  "  Three-halfpenny  club  ;  "  and  only  three 
bore  reference  to  private  funds,  as  "House-money," 
"  Allowance,"  "  Charity." 

It  was  the  bag  bearing  this  last  and  greatest  name 
which  the  parson's  daughter  now  seized  and  emptied 
into  her  lap.  A  ten-shilling  piece,  some  small  silver, 
and  two-pence  halfpenny  jingled  together,  and  roused 
a  silver-haired,  tawny-pawed  terrier,  who  left  the 
hearthrug  and  came  to  smell  what  was  the  matter. 
His  mistress's  right  hand  —  absently  caressing  — 
quieted  his  feelings ;  and  with  the  left  she  held  the 
ten-shilling  piece  between  finger  and  thumb,  and 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  other  bags  as  they  squatted 
in  a  helpless  row,  with  twine-tied  mouths  hanging  on 
all  sides.  It  was  only  after  anxious  consultation  with 
an  account-book  that  the  half  sovereign  was  ex- 
changed for  silver ;  thanks  to  the  clothing-club  bag, 
which  looked  leaner  for  the  accommodation.  In 
the  three-halfpenny  bag  (which  bulged  with  pence) 
some  silver  was  further  solved  into  copper,  and  the 
charity  bag   was  handsomely   distended    before   the 


12  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

whole   lot   was  consigned  once   more    to   the    table- 
drawer. 

Any  one  accustomed  to  book-keeping  must  smile 
at  this  bag-keeping  of  accounts ;  but  the  parson's 
daughter  could  never  "  bring  her  mind  "  to  keeping 
the  funds  apart  on  paper,  and  mixing  the  actual  cash. 
Indeed,  she  could  never  have  brought  her  conscience 
to  it.  Unless  she  had  taken  the  tenth  for  "charity" 
from  her  dress  and  pocket-money  in  coin,  and  put  it 
then  and  there  into  the  charity  bag,  this  self-imposed 
rule  of  the  duty  of  almsgiving  would  not  have  been 
performed  to  her  soul's  peace. 

The  problem  which  had  been  exercising  her  mind 
that  Saturday  night  was  how  to  spend  what  was  left 
of  her  benevolent  fund  in  a  treat^for  the  children  of 
the  neighboring  workhouse.  The  fund  was  low,  and 
this  had  decided  the  matter.  The  following  Wednes- 
day would  be  her  twenty-first  birthday.  If  the  chil- 
dren came  to  tea  with  her,  the  foundation  of  the 
entertainment  would,  in  the  natural  course  of  things, 
be  laid  in  the  Vicarage  kitchen.  The  charity  bag 
would  provide  the  extras  of  the  feast,  —  nuts,  toys, 
and  the  like. 

When  the  parson's  daughter  locked  the  drawer  of 
the  bandy-legged  table,  she  did  so  with  the  vigor  of 
one  who  has  made  up  her  mind,  and  set  about  the 
rest  of  her  Saturday  night's  duties  without  further 
delay. 

She  put  out  her  Sunday  clothes,  and  her  Bible  and 
Prayer-book,  and  class-book  and  pencil,  on  the  oak 


SATURDAY   NIGHT.  1 3 

chest  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  brushed  and 
combed  the  silver-haired  terrier,  who  looked  abjectly 
depressed  whilst  this  was  doing,  and  preposterously 
proud  when  it  was  done.  She  washed  her  own  hair, 
and  studied  her  Sunday-school  lesson  for  the  morrow 
whilst  it  was  drying.  She  spread  a  colored  quilt  at 
the  foot  of  her  white  one,  for  the  terrier  to  sleep  on  — 
a  slur  which  he  always  deeply  resented. 

Then  she  went  to  bed,  and  slept  as  one  ought  to 
sleep  on  Saturday  night,  who  is  bound  to  be  at  the 
Sunday  School  by  9.15  on  the  following  morning, 
with  a  clear  mind  on  the  Rudiments  of  the  Faith,  the 
history  of  the  Prophet  Elisha,  and  the  destination  of 
each  of  the  parish  magazines. 


SCENE    II. 


^w-voC  ATHERLESS  —  mother- 
less —  homeless ! 

A  little  workhouse 
boy,  with  a  swarthy- 
face  and  tidily-cropped 
black  hair,  as  short 
and  thick  as  the  fur  of 
a  mole,  was  grubbing, 
not  quite  so  cleverly 
as  a  mole,  in  the  work- 
house garden. 

He  had  been  set  to 
weed,  but  the  weeding 
was  very  irregularly 
performed,  for  his  eyes 
and  heart  were  in  the 
clouds,  as  he  could 
see  them  over  the  big 
boundary  wall.  For 
there — now  dark  against  the  white,  now  white  against 
the  gray — some  Air  Tumbler  pigeons  were  turning 
summersaults  on  their  homeward  way,  at  such  short 
and  regular  intervals  that  they  seemed  to  be  tying 
knots  in  their  lines  of  flight. 


god's  poor  and  the  devil's  poor.         15 

It  was  too  much  !  The  small  gardener  shamelessly 
abandoned  his  duties,  and,  curving  his  dirty  paws  on 
each  side  of  his  mouth,  threw  his  whole  soul  into 
shouting  words  of  encouragement  to  the  distant 
birds. 

"  That's  a  good  un  !  On  with  thee  !  Over  ye  go  ! 
Oo — ooray  !  " 

It  was  this  last  prolonged  cheer  which  drowned  the 
sound  of  footsteps  on  the  path  behind  him,  so  that  if 
he  had  been  a  tumbler  pigeon  himself  he  could  not 
have  jumped  more  nimbly  when  a  man's  hand  fell 
upon  his  shoulder.  Up  went  his  arms  to  shield  his 
ears  from  a  well-merited  cuffing;  but  Fate  was  kinder 
to  him  than  he  deserved.  It  was  only  an  old  man 
(prematurely  aged  with  drink  and  consequent  pov- 
erty), whose  faded  eyes  seemed  to  rekindle  as  he 
also  gazed  after  the  pigeons,  and  spoke  as  one  who 
knows. 

"Yon's  Daddy  Darwin's  Tumblers." 

This  old  pauper  had  only  lately  come  into  "  the 
House"  (the  house  that  never  was  a  home!),  and 
the  boy  clung  eagerly  to  his  flannel  sleeve,  and  plied 
him  thick  and  fast  with  questions  about  the  world 
without  the  workhouse  walls,  and  about  the  happy 
owner  of  those  yet  happier  creatures  who  were  free 
not  only  on  the  earth,  but  in  the  skies. 

The  poor  old  pauper  was  quite  as  willing  to  talk  as 
the  boy  was  to  listen.  It  restored  some  of  that  self- 
respect  which  we  lose  under  the  consequences  of  our 
follies  to  be  able  to  say  that  Daddy  Darwin  and  he 


1 6    ONE  FROM  PROVIDENCE,  T'  OTHER  FROM  VICE. 

had  been  mates  together,  and  had  had  pigeon-fancying 
in  common  "  many  a  long  year  afore  "  he  came  into 
the  House. 

And  so  these  two  made  friendship  over  such  mat- 
ters as  will  bring  man  and  boy  together  to  the  end  of 
time.  And  the  old  pauper  waxed  eloquent  on  the 
feats  of  Homing  Birds  and  Tumblers,  and  on  the 
points  of  Almonds  and  Barbs,  Fantails  and  Pouters ; 
sprinkling  his  narrative  also  with  high-sounding  and 
heterogeneous  titles,  such  as  Dragons  and  Archan- 
gels, Blue  Owls  and  Black  Priests,  Jacobines,  English 
Horsemen  and  Trumpeters.  And  through  much 
boasting  of  the  high  stakes  he  had  had  on  this  and 
that  pigeon-match  then,  and  not  a  few  bitter  com- 
plaints of  the  harsh  hospitality  of  the  House  he  "  had 
come  to  "  now,  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  to 
connect  the  two,  or  to  warn  the  lad  who  hung  upon 
his  lips  that  one  cannot  eat  his  cake  with  the  rash 
appetites  of  youth,  and  yet  hope  to  have  it  for  the 
support  and  nourishment  of  his  old  age. 

The  longest  story  the  old  man  told  was  of  a  "  bit 
of  a  trip  "  he  had  made  to  Liverpool,  to  see  some 
Antwerp  Carriers  flown  from  thence  to  Ghent,  and  he 
fixed  the  date  of  this  by  remembering  that  his  twin 
sons  were  born  in  his  absence,  and  that  though  their 
birthday  was  the  very  day  of  the  race,  his  "  missus 
turned  stoopid,"  as  women  (he  warned  the  boy)  are 
apt  to  do,  and  refused  to  have  them  christened  by 
uncommon  names  connected  with  the  fancy.  All  the 
same,  he  bet  the  lads  would  have  been  nicknamed  the 


CASTLES   IN   THE  AIR.  I J 

Antwerp  Carriers,  and  known  as  such  to  the  day  of 
their  death,  if  this  had  not  come  so  soon  and  so  sud- 
denly, of  croup;  when  (as  it  oddly  chanced)  he  was 
off  on  another  "  bit  of  a  holiday  "  to  fly  some  pigeons 
of  his  own  in  Lincolnshire. 

This  tale  had  not  come  to  an  end  when  a  voice  of 
authority  called  for  "  Jack  March,"  who  rubbed  his 
mole-like  head  and  went  ruefully  off,  muttering  that 
he  should  "  catch  it  now." 

"  Sure  enough !  sure  enough !  "  chuckled  the  un- 
amiable  old  pauper. 

But  again  Fate  was  kinder  to  the  lad  than  his  friend. 
His  negligent  weeding  passed  unnoticed,  because  he 
was  wanted  in  a  hurry  to  join  the  other  children  in 
the  school-room.  The  parson's  daughter  had  come, 
the  children  were  about  to  sing  to  her,  and  Jack's 
voice  could  not  be  dispensed  with. 

He  "cleaned  himself"  with  alacrity,-and  taking  his 
place  in  the  circle  of  boys  standing  with  their  hands 
behind  their  backs,  he  lifted  up  a  voice  worthy  of 
a  cathedral  choir,  whilst  varying  the  monotony  of 
sacred  song  by  secretly  snatching  at  the  tail  of  the 
terrier  as  it  went  snuffing  round  the  legs  of  the  group. 
And  in  this  feat  he  proved  as  much  superior  to  the 
rest  of  the  boys  (who  also  tried  it)  as  he  excelled 
them  in  the  art  ©f  singing. 

Later  on  he  learnt  that  the  young  lady  had  come 
to  invite  them  all  to  have  tea  with  her  on  her  birth- 
day. Later  still  he  found  the  old  pauper  once  more, 
and  questioned  him  closely  about  the  village  an--4  the 


18 


CASTLES   IN   THE   AIR. 


Vicarage,  and  as  to  which  of  the  parishioners  kept 
pigeons,  and  where. 

And  when  he  went  to  his  straw  bed  that  night,  and 
his  black  head  throbbed  with  visions  and  high  hopes, 
these  were  not  entirely  of  the  honor  of  drinking  tea 
with  a  pretty  young  lady,  and  how  one  should  behave 


himself  in  such  abashing  circumstances.  He  did  not 
even  dream  principally  of  the  possibility  of  getting 
hold  of  that  silver-haired,  tawny-pawed  dog  by  the 
tail  under  freer  conditions  than  those  of  this  after- 
noon, though  that  was  a  refreshing  thought. 


CASTLES   IN   THE   AIR.  1 9 

What  kept  him  long  awake  was  thinking  of  this. 
From  the  top  of  an  old  walnut-tree  at  the  top  of  a 
field  at  the  back  of  the  Vicarage,  you  could  see  a  hill, 
and  on  the  top  of  the  hill  some  farm  buildings.  And 
it  was  here  (so  the  old  pauper  had  told  him)  that 
those  pretty  pigeons  lived,  who,  though  free  to  play 
about  among  the  clouds,  yet  condescended  to  make 
an  earthly  home  in  Daddy  Darwin's  Dovecot. 


SCENE    III. 


WO  and  two,  girls  and 
boys  the  young  lady's 
guests  marched  down 
to  the  Vicarage.  The 
school -mistress  was 
anxious  that  each 
should  carry  his  and 
her  tin  mug,  so  as  to  give  as  little  trouble  as  possible ; 
but  this  was  resolutely  declined,  much  to  the  chil- 
dren's satisfaction,  who  had  their  walk  with  free 
hands,  and  their  tea  out  of  teacups 'and  saucers  like 
anybody  else. 

It  was  a  fine  day,  and  all  went  well.  The  children 
enjoyed  themselves,  and  behaved  admirably  into  the 
bargain.  There  was  only  one  suspicion  of  miscon- 
duct, and  the  matter  was  so  far  from  clear  that  the 
parson's  daughter  hushed  it  up,  and,  so  to  speak,  dis- 
missed the  case. 

The  children  were  playing  at  some  game  in  which 
Jack  March  was  supposed  to  excel,  but  when  they 
came  to  look  for  him  he  could  nowhere  be  found. 
At  last  he  was  discovered,  high  up  among  the 
branches  of  an  old  walnut-tree  at  the  top  of  the  field, 
and  though  his  hands  were  unstained  and  his  pockets 


there's  kinship  in  TROUBLE.  21 

empty,  the  gardener,  who  had  been  the  first  to  spy 
him,  now  loudly  denounced  him  as  an  ungrateful 
young  thief.  Jack,  with  swollen  eyes  and  cheeks  be- 
smirched with  angry  tears,  was  vehemently  declaring 
that  he  had  only  climbed  the  tree  to  "  have  a  look 
at  Master  Darwin's  pigeons,"  and  had  not  picked  so 
much  as  a  leaf,  let  alone. a  walnut;  and  the  gardener, 
"  shaking  the  truth  out  of  him  "  by  the  collar  of  his 
fustian  jacket,  was  preaching  loudly  on  the  sin  of 
adding  falsehood  to  theft,  when  the  parson's  daughter 
came  up,  and,  in  the  end,  acquitted  poor  Jack,  and 
gave  him  leave  to  amuse  himself  as  he  pleased. 

It  did  not  please  Jack  to  play  with  his  comrades 
just  then.  He  felt  sulky  and  aggrieved.  He  would 
have  liked  to  play  with  the  terrier  who  had  stood  by 
him  in  his  troubles,  and  barked  at  the  gardener ;  but 
that  little  friend  now  trotted  after  his  mistress,  who 
had  gone  to  choir-practice. 

Jack  wandered  about  among  the  shrubberies. 
By-and-by  he  heard  sounds  of  music,  and  led  by 
these  he  came  to  a  gate  in  a  wall,  dividing  the  Vicar- 
age garden  from  the  churchyard.  Jack  loved  music, 
and  the  organ  and  the  voices  drew  him  on  till  he 
reached  the  church  porch ;  but  there  he  was  startled 
by  a  voice  that  was  not  only  not  the  voice  of  song, 
but  was  the  utterance  of  a  moan  so  doleful  that  it 
seemed  the  outpouring  of  all  his  own  lonely,  and  out- 
cast, and  injured  feelings  in  one  comprehensive  howl. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  silver-haired  terrier.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  porch,  his  nose  up,  his  ears  down, 


22  A   CHOIR   PRACTICE. 

his  eyes  shut,  his  mouth  open,  bewailing  in  bitterness 
of  spirit  the  second  and  greater  crook  of  his  lot. 

To  what  purpose  were  all  the  caresses  and  care 
'  and  indulgence  of  his  mistress,  the  daily  walks,  the 
weekly  washings  and  combings,  the  constant  com- 
panionship, when  she  betrayed  her  abiding  sense  of 
his  inferiority,  first,  by  not  letting  him  sleep  on  the 
white  quilt,  and  secondly,  by  never  allowing  him  to 
go  to  church? 

Jack  shared  the  terrier's  mood.  What  were  tea  and 
plum-cake  to  him,  when  his  pauper-breeding  was 
so  stamped  upon  him  that  the  gardener  was  free  to 
say  —  "A  nice  tale  too  !  What's  thou  to  do  wi'  doves, 
and  thou  a  work'us  lad?"  —  and  to  take  for  granted 
that  he  would  thieve  and  lie  if  he  got  the  chance? 

His  disabilities  were  not  the  dog's,  however.  The 
parish  church  was  his  as  well  as  another's,  and  he 
crept  inside  and  leaned  against  one  of  the  stone  pil- 
lars, as  if  it  were  a  big,  calm  friend. 

Far  away,  under  the  transept,  a  group  of  boys  and 
men  held  their  music  near  to  their  faces  in  the  waning 
light.  Among  them  towered  the  burly  choir-master, 
baton  in  hand.  The  parson's  daughter  was  at  the 
organ.  Well  accustomed  to  produce  his  voice  to 
good  purpose,  the  choir-master's  words  were  clearly 
to  be  heard  throughout  the  building,  and  it  was  on 
the  subject  of  articulation  and  emphasis,  and  the  like, 
that  he  was  speaking ;  now  and  then  throwing  in  an 
extra  aspirate  in  the  energy  of  that  enthusiasm  with- 
out which  teaching  is  not  worth  the  name. 


MUSIC    HATH   CHARMS.  23 

"  That  '11  not  do.  We  must  have  it  altogether  dif- 
ferent. You  two  lads  are  singing  like  bumble-bees 
in  a  pitcher  —  horder  there,  boys!  —  it's  no  laughing 
matter  —  put  down  those  papers  and  keep  your 
eyes  on  me  —  inflate  the  chest  —  "  (his  own  seemed 
to  fill  the  field  of  vision)  "  and  try  and  give  forth 
those  noble  words  as  if  you  'd  an  idea  what  they 
meant." 

No  satire  was  intended  or  taken  here,  but  the  two 
boys,  who  were  practising  their  duet  in  an  anthem, 
laid  down  the  music,  and  turned  their  eyes  on  their 
teacher. 

"I'll  run  through  the  recitative,"  he  added,  "  and 
take  your  time  from  the  stick.     And  mind  that  Oh." 

The  parson's  daughter  struck  a  chord,  and  then 
the  burly  choir-master  spoke  with  the  voice  of 
melody,  — 

"  My  heart  is  disquieted  within  me.  My  heart  — 
my  heart  is  disquieted  within  me.  And  the  fear  of 
death  is  fallen  —  is  fallen  upon  me." 

The  terrier  moaned  without,  and  Jack  thought  no 
boy's  voice  could  be  worth  listening  to  after  that  of 
the  choir-master.  But  he  was  wrong.  A  few  more 
notes  from  the  organ,  and  then,  as  night-stillness 
in  a  wood  is  broken  by  the  nightingale,  so  upon 
the  silence  of  the  church  a  boy-alto's  voice  broke 
forth  in  obedience  to  the  choir-master's  uplifted 
hand : 

"  Then,  I  said  —  I  said  —  " 

Jack  gasped,  but  even  as  he  strained  his  eyes  to 


24  REQUIEM   ETERNAM   DONA  EIS  J 

see  what  such  a  singer  could  look  like,  with  higher, 
clearer  notes  the  soprano  rose  above  him  —  "  Then 
I  sa  —  a — id,"  and  the  duet  began: 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  —  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like 
a  dove ! " 

Soprano.  —  "Then  would  I  flee  away."  Alto.— 
"  Then  would  I  flee  away."  Together.  —  "  And  be  at 
rest  —  flee  away  and  be  at  rest." 

The  clear  young  voices  soared  and  chased  each 
other  among  the  arches,  as  if  on  the  very  pinions  for 
which  they  prayed.  Then  —  swept  from  their  seats 
by  an  upward  sweep  of  the  choir-master's  arms  — 
the  chorus  rose  as  birds  rise,  and  carried  on  the 
strain. 

It  was  not  a  very  fine  composition,  but  this  final 
chorus  had  the  singular  charm  of  fugue.  And  as 
the  voices  mourned  like  doves,  "  Oh,  that  I  had 
wings !  "  and  pursued  each  other  with  the  plaintive 
passage,  "  Then  would  I  flee  away  —  then  would  I 
flee  away — ,"  Jack's  ears  knew  no  weariness  of  the 
repetition.  It  was  strangely  like  watching  the  rising 
and  falling  of  Daddy  Darwin's  pigeons,  as  they  tossed 
themselves  by  turns  upon  their  homeward  flight. 

After  the  fashion  of  the  piece  and  period,  the  cho- 
rus was  repeated,  and  the  singers  rose  to  supreme 
effort.  The  choir-master's  hands  flashed  hither  and 
thither,  controlling,  inspiring,  directing.  He  sang 
among  the  tenors. 

Jack's  voice  nearly  choked  him  with  longing  to 
sing   too.      Could   words   of  man    go   more    deeply 


REQUIEM   ETERNAM   DONA   EIS  !  2$ 

home   to    a    young   heart   caged   within   workhouse 
walls? 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove  !  Then  would 
I  flee  away  —  "  the  choir-master's  white  hands  were 
fluttering  downwards  in  the  dusk,  and  the  chorus 
sank  with  them  —  "  flee  away  and  be  at  rest !  " 


SCENE    IV. 


ACK  MARCH  had  a  busy  lit- 
tle brain,  and  his  nature  was 
not  of  the  limp  type  that  sits 
down  with  a  grief.    That  most 
memorable    tea  -  party    had 
fired  his  soul  with  two  dis- 
tinct ambitions.     First,  to  be 
a  choirboy;    and,   secondly, 
to  dwell  in  Daddy  Darwin's 
Dovecot.       He    turned    the 
matter  over  in  his  mind,  and 
patched  together  the  following  facts : 

The  Board  of  Guardians  meant  to  apprentice  him, 
Jack,  to  some  master,  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 
Daddy  Darwin  (so  the  old  pauper  told  him)  was  a 
strange  old  man,  who  had  come  down  in  the  world, 
and  now  lived  quite  alone,  with  not  a  soul  to  help 
him  in  the  house  or  outside  it.  He  was  "  not  to  say 
mazelin  yet,  but  getting  helpless,  «and  uncommon 
mean." 

A  nephew  came  one  fine  day  and  fetched  away 
the  old  pauper,  to  his  great  delight.  It  was  by  their 
hands    that    Jack    despatched    a    letter,    which    the 


DO   WELL  AND   DOUBT  NOT.  27 

nephew  stamped  and  posted  for  him,  and  which  was 
duly  delivered  on  the  following  morning  to  Mr.  Dar- 
win of  the  Dovecot. 

The  old  man  had  no  correspondents,  and  he  looked 
long  at  the  letter  before  he  opened  it.  It  did  credit 
to  the  teaching  of  the  workhouse  school-mistress : 

"Honored  Sir, 

"  They  call  me  Jack  March.  I  'm  a  workhouse  lad, 
but,  Sir,  I  'm  a  good  one,  and  the  Board  means  to  'prentice  me 
next  time.  Sir,  if  you  face  the  Board  and  take  me  out  you  shall 
never  regret  it.  Though  I  says  it  as  should  n't  I'raa  handy  lad. 
I  '11  clean  a  floor  with  any  one,  and  am  willing  to  work  early  and 
late,  and  at  your  time  of  life  you  're  not  what  you  was,  and  them 
birds  must  take  a  deal  of  seeing  to.  I  can  see  them  from  the 
garden  when  I  'm  set  to  weed,  and  I  never  saw  nought  like 
them.  Oh,  Sir,  I  do  beg  and  pray  you  let  me  mind  your  pig- 
eons. You  '11  be  none  the  worse  of  a  lad  about  the  place,  and 
I  shall  be  happy  all  the  days  of  my  life.  Sir,  I  'm  not  unthank- 
ful, but,  please  God,  I  should  like  to  have  a  home,  and  to  be 
with  them  house  doves. 

"  From  your  humble  servant  —  hoping  to  be  — 

"JACK   MARCH. 

"  Mr.  Darwin,  Sir.  I  love  them  Tumblers  as  if  they  was 
my  own." 

Daddy  Darwin  thought  hard  and  thought  long 
over  that  letter.  He  changed  his  mind  fifty  times 
a  day.  But  Friday  was  the  Board  day,  and  when 
Friday  came  he  "  faced  the  Board."  And  the  lit- 
tle workhouse  lad  went  home  to  Daddy  Darwin's 
Dovecot. 


SCENE   V. 


I  HE  bargain  was  oddly 
made,  but  it  worked 
well.  Whatever  Jack's 
parentage  may  have 
been  (and  he  was 
named  after  the  stormy 
month  in  which  he  had 
been  born),  the  blood  that  ran  in  his  veins  could  not 
have  been  beggars'  blood.  There  was  no  hopeless, 
shiftless,  invincible  idleness  about  him.  He  found 
work  for  himself  when  it  was  not  given  him  to  do, 
and  he  attached  himself  passionately  and  proudly  to 
all  the  belongings  of  his  new  home. 

"  Yon  lad  of  yours  seems  handy  enough,  Daddy,  — 
for  a  vagrant,  as  one  may  say." 

Daddy  Darwin  was  smoking  over  his  garden  wall, 
and  Mrs.  Shaw,  from  the  neighboring  farm,  had 
paused  in  her  walk  for  a  chat.  She  was  a  notable 
housewife,  and  there  was  just  a  touch  of  envy  in  her 
sense  of  the  improved  appearance  of  the  doorsteps 


30        HAE  YE  GEAR,  HAE  YE  NANE : 

and  other  visible  points  of  the  Dovecot.  Daddy 
Darwin  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to  make  way 
for  the  force  of  his  reply : 

"  Vagrant  !  Nay,  missus,  yon  's  no  vagrant.  He 's 
fettling  up  all  along.  Jack  's  the  sort  that  if  he  finds 
a  key  he  '11  look  for  the  lock ;  if  ye  give  him  a  knife- 
blade  he  '11  fashion  a  heft.  Why,  a  vagrant 's  a  chap 
that,  if  he  'd  all  your  maester  owns  to-morrow,  he  'd 
be  on  the  tramp  again  afore  t'  year  were  out,  and 
three  years  would  n't  repair  t'  mischief  he  'd  leave  be- 
hind him.  A  vagrant's  a  chap  that  if  ye  lend  him 
a  thing  he  loses  it;  if  ye  give  him  a  thing  he  abuses 
it—" 

"  That 's  true  enough,  and  there  's  plenty  servant- 
girls  the  same,"  put  in  Mrs.  Shaw. 

"Maybe  there  be,  ma'am  —  maybe  there  be;  va- 
grants' children,  I  reckon.  But  yon  little  chap  I  got 
from  t'  House  comes  of  folk  that's  had  stuff  o'  their 
own,  and  cared  for  it  —  choose  who  they  were." 

"  Well,  Daddy,"  said  his  neighbor,  not  without 
malice,  "  I  '11  wish  you  a  good  evening.  You  've  got 
a  good  bargain  out  of  the  parish,  it  seems." 

But  Daddy  Darwin  only  chuckled,  and  stirred  up 
the  ashes  in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"The  same  to  you,  ma'am  —  the  same  to  you. 
Ay!  he's  a  good  bargain — a  very  good  bargain  is 
Jack  March." 

It  might  be  supposed  from  the  foregoing  dialogue 
that  Daddy  Darwin  was  a  model  householder,  and 
the  little  workhouse  boy  the  neatest  creature  breath- 


TINE   HEART,   AND   A  'S    GANE.  3 1 

ing.     But  the  gentle  reader  who  may  imagine  this  is 
much  mistaken. 

Daddy  Darwin's  Dovecot  was  freehold,  and  when 
he  inherited  it  from  his  father  there  was  still  attached 
to  it  a  good  bit  of  the  land  that  had  passed  from 
father  to  son  through  more  generations  than  the 
church  registers  were  old  enough  to  record.  But  the 
few  remaining  acres  were  so  heavily  mortgaged  that 
they  had  to  be  sold.  So  that  a  bit  of  house  property 
elsewhere,  and  the  old  homestead  itself,  were  all  that 
was  left.  And  Daddy  Darwin  had  never  been  the 
sort  of  man  to  retrieve  his  luck  at  home,  or  to  seek  it 
abroad. 

That  he  had  inherited  a  somewhat  higher  and  more 
refined  nature  than  his  neighbors  had  rather  hindered 
than  helped  him  to  prosper.  And  he  had  been  un- 
lucky in  love.  When  what  energies  he  had  were  in 
their  prime,  his  father's  death  left  him  with  such  poor 
prospects  that  the  old  farmer  to  whose  daughter  he 
was  betrothed  broke  off  the  match  and  married  her 
elsewhere.  His  Alice  was  not  long  another  man's 
wife.  She  died  within  a  year  from  her  wedding-day, 
and  her  husband  married  again  within  a  year  from 
her  death.  Her  old  lover  was  no  better  able  to  mend 
his  broken  heart  than  his  broken  fortunes.  He  only 
banished  women  from  the  Dovecot,  and  shut  himself 
up  from  the  coarse  consolation  of  his  neighbors. 

In  this  loneliness,  eating  a  kindly  heart  out  in 
bitterness  of  spirit,  with  all  that  he  ought  to  have 
had  — 


32      A   RAGGED    COLT   MAY   MAKE  A  GOOD   HORSE. 


To  plough  and  sow 
And  reap  and  mow  — 


gone  from  him,  and  in  the  hands  of  strangers,  the 
pigeons,  for  which  the  Dovecot  had  always  been  fa- 
mous, became  the  business  and  the  pleasure  of  his 
life.  But  of  late  years  his  stock  had  dwindled,  and 
he  rarely  went  to  pigeon-matches  or  competed  in 
shows  and  races.  A  more  miserable  fancy  rivalled 
his  interest  in  pigeon  fancying.  His  new  hobby  was 
hoarding;  and  money  that,  a  few  years  back,  he 
would  have  freely  spent  to  improve  his  breed  of 
Tumblers  or  back  his  Homing  Birds  he  now  added 
with  stealthy  pleasure  to  the  store  behind  the  secret 
panel  of  a  fine  old  oak  bedstead  that  had  belonged 
to  the  Darwyn  who  owned  Dovecot  when  the  six- 
teenth century  was  at  its  latter  end.  In  this  bedstead 
Daddy  slept  lightly  of  late,  as  old  men  will,  and  he 
had  horrid  dreams,  which  old  men  need  not  have. 
The  queer  faces  carved  on  the  panels  (one  of  which 
hid  the  money  hole)  used  to  frighten  him  when  he 
was  a  child.  They  did  not  frighten  him  now  by  their 
grotesque  ugliness,  but  when  he  looked  at  them,  and 
knew  which  was  which,  he  dreaded  the  dying  out  of 
twilight  into  dark,  and  dreamed  of  aged  men  living 
alone,  who  had  been  murdered  for  their  savings. 
These  growing  fears  had  had  no  small  share  in  de- 
ciding him  to  try  Jack  March ;  and  to  see  the  lad 
growing  stronger,  nimbler,  and  more  devoted  to  his 
master's  interests  day  by  day,  was  a  nightly  comfort 
to  the  poor  old  hoarder  in  the  bed-head. 


A   RAGGED   COLT   MAY   MAKE   A   GOOD    HORSE.      33 

As  to  his  keen  sense  of  Jack's  industry  and  care- 
fulness, it  was  part  of  the  incompleteness  of  Daddy- 
Darwin's  nature,  and  the  ill-luck  of  his  career,  that  he 
had  a  sensitive  perception  of  order  and  beauty,  and 
a  shrewd  observation  of  ways  of  living  and  qualities 
of  character,  and  yet  had  allowed  his  early  troubles 
to  blight  him  so  completely  that  he  never  put  forth 
an  effort  to  rise  above  the  ruin,  of  which  he  was  at 
least  as  conscious  as  his  neighbors. 

That  Jack  was  not  the  neatest  creature  breathing, 
one  look  at  him,  as  he  stood  with  pigeons  on  his 
head  and  arms  and  shoulders,  would  have  been 
enough  to  prove.  As  the  first  and  readiest  repudia- 
tion of  his  workhouse  antecedents  he  had  let  his  hair 
grow  till  it  hung  in  the  wildest  elf-locks,  and  though 
the  terms  of  his  service  with  Daddy  Darwin  would 
not,  in  any  case,  have  provided  him  with  handsome 
clothes,  such  as  he  had  were  certainly  not  the  better 
for  any  attention  he  bestowed  upon  them.  As  re- 
garded the  Dovecot,  however,  Daddy  Darwin  had 
not  done  more  than  justice  to  his  bargain.  A  strong 
and  grateful  attachment  to  his  master,  and  a  pas- 
sionate love  for  the  pigeons  he  tended,  kept  Jack 
constantly  busy  in  the  service  of  both ;  the  old 
pigeon-fancier  taught  him  the  benefits  of  scrupulous 
cleanliness  in  the  pigeon-cot,  and  Jack  "  stoned " 
the  kitchen-floor  and  the  doorsteps  on  his  own 
responsibility. 

The  time  did  come  when  he  tidied  up  himself. 

3 


SCENE   VI. 


ADDY  DARWIN  had  made  the  first  breach 

in  his  solitary  life  of  his 
own  free  will  but  it  was 
fated  to  widen. 
The  parson's 
daughter  soon 
heard  that  he 
had  got  a  lad 
from  the  work- 
house, the  very 
boy  who  sang 
so  well  and  had 
climbed  the 
walnut-tree  to 
look  at  Daddy 
Darwin's  pigeons.  The  most  obvious  parish  ques- 
tions at  once  presented  themselves  to  the  young 
lady's  mind.  "Had  the  boy  been  christened?  Did 
he  go  to  Church  and  Sunday-school?  Did  he  say 
his  prayers  and  know  his  Catechism?  Had  he  a 
Sunday  suit?     Would  he  do  for  the  choir?  " 

Then,  supposing  (a  not  uncommon  case)  that  the 
boy  had  been  christened,  said  he  said  his  prayers, 
knew  his  Catechism,  and  was  ready  for  school,  church, 


SOFT  WORDS   ARE   HARD   ARGUMENTS.  35 

and  choir,  but  had  not  got  a  Sunday  suit  —  a  fresh 
series  of  riddles  propounded  themselves  to  her  busy- 
brain.  Would  her  father  yield  up  his  every-day 
coat  and  take  his  Sunday  one  into  week-day  wear  ? 
Could  the  charity  bag  do  better  than  pay  the  tailor's 
widow  for  adapting  this  old  coat  to  the  new  chorister's 
back,  taking  it  in  at  the  seams,  turning  it  wrong- 
side  out,  and  getting  new  sleeves  out  of  the  old  tails? 
Could  she  herself  spare  the  boots  which  the  village 
cobbler  had  just  resoled  for  her  —  somewhat  clumsily 
—  and  would  the  "allowance"  bag  bear  this  strain? 
Might  she  hope  to  coax  an  old  pair  of  trousers  out 
of  her  cousin,  who  was  spending  his  Long  Vacation 
at  the  Vicarage,  and  who  never  reckoned  very  closely 
with^M  allowance,  and  kept  no  charity  bag  at  all? 
Lastly,  would  "  that  old  curmudgeon  at  the  Dovecot" 
let  his  little  farm-boy  go  to  church  and  school  and 
choir? 

"  I  must  go  and  persuade  him,"  said  the  young  lady. 

What  she  said,  and  what  (at  the  time)  Daddy  Dar- 
win said,  Jack  never  knew.  He  was  at  high  sport  with 
the  terrier  round  the  big  sweetbrier  bush,  when  he 
saw  his  old  master  splitting  the  seams  of  his  weather- 
beaten  coat  in  the  haste  with  which  he  plucked  crim- 
son clove  carnations,  as  if  they  had  been  dandelions, 
and  presented  them,  not  ungracefully,  to  the  parson's 
daughter. 

Jack  knew  why  she  had  come,  and  strained  his  ears 
to  catch  his  own  name.  But  Daddy  Darwin  was 
promising  pipings  of  the  cloves. 


35  SOFT   WORDS   ARE   HARD   ARGUMENTS. 

"  They  are  such  dear  old-fashioned  things,"  said 
she,  burying  her  nose  in  the  bunch. 

"  We  're  old-fashioned  altogether,  here,  Miss,"  said 
Daddy  Darwin,  looking  wistfully  at  the  tumble-down 
house  behind  them. 

"  You  're  very  pretty  here,"  said  she,  looking  also, 
and  thinking  what  a  sketch  it  would  make,  if  she 
could  keep  on  friendly  terms  with  this  old  recluse, 
and  get  leave  to  sit  in  the  garden.  Then  her  con- 
science smiting  her  for  selfishness,  she  turned  her  big 
eyes  on  him  and  put  out  her  small  hand. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Darwin, 
very  much  obliged  to  you  indeed.  And  I  hope  that 
Jack  will  do  credit  to  your  kindness.  And  thank  you 
so  much  for  the  cloves,"  she  added,  hastily  changing 
a  subject  which  had  cost  some  argument,  and  which 
she  did  not  wish  to  have  reopened. 

Daddy  Darwin  had  thoughts  of  reopening  it.  He 
was  slowly  getting  his  ideas  together  to  say  that  the 
lad  should  see  how  he  got  along  with  the  school 
before  trying  the  choir,  when  he  found  the  young 
lady's  hand  in  his,  and  had  to  take  care  not  to  hurt 
it,  whilst  she  rained  thanks  on  him  for  the  flowers. 

"  You  're  freely  welcome,  Miss,"  was  what  he  did 
say  after  all. 

In  the  evening,  however,  he  was  very  moody,  but 
Jack  was  dying  of  curiosity,  and  at  last  could  contain 
himself  no  longer. 

"What  did  Miss  Jenny  want,  Daddy?"  he  asked. 

The  old  man  looked  very  grim. 


OF   ALL  TAME   BEASTS,   I   HATE   A   SLUT.  37 

"  First  to  mak  a  fool  of  me,  and  i'  t'  second  place  to 
mak  a  fool  of  thee,"  was  his  reply.  And  he  added 
with  pettish  emphasis,  "  They  're  all  alike,  gentle  and 
simple.  Lad,  lad  !  If  ye  'd  have  any  peace  of  your 
life  never  let  a  woman's  foot  across  your  threshold. 
Steek  t'  door  of  your  house —  if  ye  own  one —  and 
t'  door  o'  your  heart  —  if  ye  own  one  —  and  then 
ye  '11  never  rue.     Look  at  this  coat !  " 

And  the  old  man  went  grumpily  to  bed,  and 
dreamed  that  Miss  Jenny  had  put  her  little  foot  over 
his  threshold,  and  that  he  had  shown  her  the  secret 
panel,  and  let  her  take  away  his  savings. 

And  Jack  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  he  went 
to  school,  and  showed  himself  to  Phcebe  Shaw  in  his 
Sunday  suit. 

This  dainty  little  damsel  had  long  been  making 
havoc  in  Jack's  heart.  The  attraction  must  have 
been  one  of  contrast,  for  whereas  Jack  was  black 
and  grubby,  and  had  only  week-day  clothes  —  which 
were  ragged  at  that —  Phoebe  was  fair,  and  exquisitely 
clean,  and  quite  terribly  tidy.  Her  mother  was  the 
neatest  woman  in  the  parish.  It  was  she  who  was 
wont  to  say  to  her  trembling  handmaid,  "  I  hope  I 
can  black  a  grate  without  blacking  myself."  But 
little  Phcebe  promised  so  far  to  outdo  her  mother, 
that  it  seemed  doubtful  if  she  could  "black  herself" 
if  she  tried.  Only  the  bloom  of  childhood  could 
have  resisted  the  polishing  effects  of  yellow  soap,  as 
Phoebe's  brow  and  cheeks  did  resist  it.  Her  shining 
hair  was   compressed   into    a  plait    that  would  have 


38  phcebe's  posy. 

done  credit  to  a  rope- maker.  Her  pinafores  were 
speckless,  and  as  to  her  white  Whitsun  frock  —  Jack 
could  think  of  nothing  the  least  like  Phcebe  in  that, 
except  a  snowy  fantail  strutting  about  the  dovecot 
roof;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  the  likeness  was  most 
remarkable. 

It  has  been  shown  that  Jack  March  had  a  mind  to 
be  master  of  his  fate,  and  he  did  succeed  in  making 
friends  with  little  Phoebe  Shaw.  This  was  before  Miss 
Jenny's  visit,  but  the  incident  shall  be  recorded  here. 

Early  on  Sunday  mornings  it  was  Jack's  custom  to 
hide  his  work-day  garb  in  an  angle  of  the  ivy-covered 
wall  of  the  Dovecot  garden,  only  letting  his  head 
appear  over  the  top,  from  whence  he  watched  to  see 
Phoebe  pass  on  her  way  to  Sunday-school,  and  to 
bewilder  himself  with  the  sight  of  her  starched  frock, 
and  her  airs  with  her  Bible  and  Prayer-book,  and  class 
card,  and  clean  pocket-handkerchief. 

Now,  amongst  the  rest  of  her  Sunday  parapher- 
nalia, Phoebe  always  carried  a  posy,  made  up  with 
herbs  and  some  strong-smelling  flowers.  Country- 
women take  mint  and  southernwood  to  a  long  hot 
service,  as  fine  ladies  take  smelling-bottles  (for  it  is  a 
pleasant  delusion  with  some  writers,  that  the  weaker 
sex  is  a  strong  sex  in  the  working  classes).  And 
though  Phoebe  did  not  suffer  from  "  fainty  feels  "  like 
her  mother,  she  and  her  little  playmates  took  posies 
to  Sunday-school,  and  refreshed  their  nerves  in  the 
steam  of  question  and  answer,  and  hair-oil  and  cor- 
duroy, with  all  the  airs  of  their  elders. 


phcebe's  posy.  39 

One  day  she  lost  her  posy  on  her  way  to  school, 
and  her  loss  was  Jack's  opportunity.  He  had  been 
waiting  half-an-hour  among  the  ivy,  when  he  saw  her 
just  below  him,  fuzzling  round  and  round  like  a  kitten 
chasing  its  tail.     He  sprang  to  the  top  of  the  wall. 

"  Have  ye  lost  something?  "  he  gasped. 

"  My  posy,"  said  poor  Phoebe,  lifting  her  sweet 
eyes,  which  were  full  of  tears. 

A  second  spring  brought  Jack  into  the  dust  at  her 
feet,  where  he  searched  most  faithfully,  and  was 
wandering  along  the  path  by  which  she  had  come, 
when  she  called  him  back. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  she.  "  They  '11  most  likely 
be  dusty  by  now." 

Jack  was  not  used  to  think  the  worse  of  anything 
for  a  coating  of  dust ;  but  he  paused,  trying  to  solve 
the  perpetual  problem  of  his  situation,  and  find  out 
what  the  little  maid  really  wanted. 

"Twas  only  Old  Man  and  marygolds,"  said  she. 
"They're  common  enough." 

A  light  illumined  Jack's  understanding. 

"We've  Old  Man  i'  plenty;  wait,  and  I'll  get  thee 
a  fresh  posy."     And  he  began  to  reclimb  the  wall. 

But  Phoebe  drew  nearer.  She  stroked  down  her 
frock,  and  spoke  mincingly  but  confidentially.  "  My 
mother  says  Daddy  Darwin  has  red  bergamot  i'  his 
garden.  We've  none  i'  ours.  My  mother  always 
says  there's  nothing  like  red  bergamot  to  take  to 
church.  She  says  it's  a  deal  more  refreshing  than 
Old    Man,  and  not  so   common.     My  mother  says 


40  RED   AS   A   ROSE   IS   SHE. 

she's  always  meaning  to  ask  Daddy  Darwin  to  let 
us  have  a  root  to  set;  but  she  doesn't  oftens  see 
him,  and  when  she  does  she  does  n't  think  on.  But 
she  always  says  there  's  nothing  like  red  bergamot ; 
and  my  Aunt  Nancy,  she  says  the  same." 

"Red  is  it?"  cried  Jack.  "  You  wait  there,  love." 
And  before  Phcebe  could  say  him  nay,  he  was  over 
the  wall  and  back  again  with  his  arms  full. 

"Is  it  any  o'  this  lot?"  he  inquired,  dropping  a 
small  haycock  of  flowers  at  her  feet. 

"  Don't  ye  know  one  from  t'  other?  "  asked  Phcebe, 
with  round  eyes  of  reproach.  And  spreading  her 
clean  kerchief  on  the  grass  she  laid  her  Bible  and 
Prayer-book  and  class  card  on  it,  and  set  vigorously 
and  nattily  to  work,  picking  one  flower  and  another 
from  the  fragrant  confusion,  nipping  the  stalks  to 
even  lengths,  rejecting  withered  leaves,  and  instruct- 
ing Jack  as  she  proceeded. 

"I  suppose  ye  know  a  rose?  That's  a  double 
velvet.1  They  dry  sweeter  than  lavender  for  linen. 
These  dark  red  things  is  pheasants'  eyes ;  but,  dear, 
dear,  what  a  lad  !  ye  've  dragged  it  up  by  the  roots ! 
And  eh  !  what  will  Master  Darwin  say  when  he  misses 
these  pink  hollyhocks?  And  only  in  bud,  too! 
There 's  red  bergamot ;  2  smell  it !  " 

It  had  barely  touched  Jack's  willing  nose  when  it 
was  hastily  withdrawn.     Phcebe  had  caught  sight  of 

1  Double  Velvet,  an  old  summer  rose,  not  common  now.  It  is  de- 
scribed by  Parkinson. 

2  Red  Bergamot,  or  Twinflower.     Monarda  Didyma. 


RED   AS   A   ROSE   IS   SHE. 


41 


Polly  and  Susan  Smith  coming  to  school,  and  crying 
that  she  should  be  late  and  must  run,  the  little  maid 
picked  up  her  paraphernalia  (not  forgetting  the  red 
bergamot),  and  fled  down  the  lane.     And  Jack,  with 


^~u\. 


f-^ 


/»,* 


**$ 


m 


=*&'- 


m 


equal  haste,  snatched  up  the  tell-tale  heap  of  flowers 
and  threw  them  into  a  disused  pigsty,  where  it  was 
unlikely  that  Daddy  Darwin  would  go  to  look  for  his 
poor  pink  hollyhocks. 


SCENE   VII. 


PRIL  was  a  busy 
month  in  the  Dove- 
dot.  Young  birds 
were  chipping  the 
egg,  parent  birds 
were  feeding  their 
young  or  relieving  each  other  on  the  nest,  and  Jack 
and  his  master  were  constantly  occupied  and  excited. 
One  night  Daddy  Darwin  went  to  bed  ;  but,  though 
he  was  tired,  he  did  not  sleep  long.  He  had  sold 
a  couple  of  handsome  but  quarrelsome  pigeons  to 
advantage,  and  had  added  their  price  to  the  hoard  in 
the  bed-head.  This  had  renewed  his  old  fears,  for 
the  store  was  becoming  very  valuable ;  and  he  won- 
dered if  it  had  really  escaped  Jack's  quick  observa- 
tion, or  whether  the  boy  knew  about  it,  and,  perhaps, 
talked  about  it.  As  he  lay  and  worried  himself  he 
fancied  he  heard  sounds  without  —  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps and  of  voices.  Then  his  heart  beat  till  he  could 
hear  nothing  else;  then  he  could  undoubtedly  hear 
nothing  at  all ;  then  he  certainly  heard  something 
which  probably  was  rats.     And  so  he  lay  in  a  cold 


THE   DAY   HAS   EYES:    THE   NIGHT   HAS   EARS.     43 

sweat,  and  pulled  the  rug  over  his  face,  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  give  the  money  to  the  parson,  for  the 
poor,  if  he  was  spared  till  daylight. 

He  was  spared  till  daylight,  and  had  recovered 
himself,  and  settled  to  leave  the  money  where  it  was, 
when  Jack  rushed  in  from  the  pigeon-house  with  a 
face  of  dire  dismay.  He  made  one  or  two  futile 
efforts  to  speak,  and  then  unconsciously  used  the 
words  Shakespeare  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  Mac- 
duff, "  All  my  pretty   'uns  !  "  and  so  burst  into  tears. 

And  when  the  old  man  made  his  way  to  the  pigeon- 
house,  followed  by  poor  Jack,  he  found  that  the  eggs 
were  cold  and  the  callow  young  shivering  in  deserted 
nests,  and  that  every  bird  was  gone.  And  then  he 
remembered  the  robbers,  and  was  maddened  by  the 
thought  that  whilst  he  lay  expecting  thieves  to  break 
in  and  steal  his  money  he  had  let  them  get  safely  off 
with  his  whole  stock  of  pigeons. 

Daddy  Darwin  had  never  taken  up  arms  against 
his  troubles,  and  this  one  crushed  him.  The  fame 
and  beauty  of  his  house-doves  were  all  that  was  left 
of  prosperity  about  the  place,  and  now  there  was 
nothing  left  —  nothing!  Below  this  dreary  thought 
lay  a  far  more  bitter  one,  which  he  dared  not  confide 
to  Jack.  He  had  heard  the  robbers ;  he  might  have 
frightened  them  away ;  he  might  at  least  have  given 
the  lad  a  chance  to  save  his  pets,  and  not  a  care  had 
crossed  his  mind  except  for  the  safety  of  his  own  old 
bones,  and  of  those  miserable  savings  in  the  bed-head, 
which  he  was  enduring  so  much  to  scrape  together 


44  JACK   TAKES   TIME   BY  THE   FORELOCK. 

(oh  satire!)  for  a  distant  connection  whom  he  had 
never  seen.  He  crept  back  to  the  kitchen,  and 
dropped  in  a  heap  upon  the  settle,  and  muttered  to 
himself.  Then  his  thoughts  wandered.  Supposing 
the  pigeons  were  gone  for  good,  would  he  ever  make 
up  his  mind  to  take  that  money  out  of  the  money- 
hole,  and  buy  a  fresh  stock?  He  knew  he  never 
would,  and  shrank  into  a  meaner  heap  upon  the  settle 
as  he  said  so  to  himself.  He  did  not  like  to  look  his 
faithful  lad  in  the  face. 

Jack  looked  him  in  the  face,  and,  finding  no  help 
there,  acted  pretty  promptly  behind  his  back.  He 
roused  the  parish  constable,  and  fetched  that  func- 
tionary to  the  Dovecot  before  he  had  had  bite  or 
sup  to  break  his  fast.  He  spread  a  meal  for  him  and 
Daddy,  and  borrowed  the  Shaws'  light  cart  whilst 
they  were  eating  it.  The  Shaws  were  good  farmer- 
folk,  they  sympathized  most  fully ;  and  Jack  was  glad 
of  a  few  words  of  pity  from  Phcebe.  She  said  she 
had  watched  the  pretty  pets  "  many  a  score  of  times," 
which  comforted  more  than  one  of  Jack's  heart- 
strings. Phoebe's  mother  paid  respect  to  his  sense 
and  promptitude.  He  had  acted  exactly  as  she 
would  have  done. 

"  Daddy  was  right  enough  about  yon  lad,"  she 
admitted.  "  He 's  not  one  to  let  the  grass  grow 
under  his  feet." 

And  she  gave  him  a  good  breakfast  whilst  the 
horse  was  being  "  put  to."  It  pleased  her  that  Jack 
jumped  up   and  left  half  a  delicious   cold  tea-cake 


WHITHER   GOEST   GRIEF?  45 

behind  him  when  the  cart-wheels  grated  outside. 
Mrs.  Shaw  sent  Phoebe  to  put  the  cake  in  his  pocket, 
and  the  "  Maester"  helped  Jack  in  and  took  the  reins. 
He  said  he  would  "  see  Daddy  Darwin  through  it," 
and  added  the  weight  of  his  opinion  to  that  of  the 
constable,  that  the  pigeons  had  been  taken  to  "  a 
beastly  low  place  "  (as  he  put  it)  that  had  lately  been 
set  up  for  pigeon-shooting  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
neighboring  town. 

They  paused  no  longer  at  the  Dovecot  than  was 
needed  to  hustle  Daddy  Darwin  on  to  the  seat  beside 
Master  Shaw,  and  for  Jack  to  fill  his  pockets  with 
peas,  and  take  his  place  beside  the  constable.  He 
had  certain  ideas  of  his  own  on  the  matter,  which 
were  not  confused  by  the  jog-trot  of  the  light  cart, 
which  did  give  a  final  jumble  to  poor  Daddy  Darwin's 
faculties. 

No  wonder  they  were  jumbled !  The  terrors  of 
the  night  past,  the  shock  of  the  morning,  the  com- 
pleteness of  the  loss,  the  piteous  sight  in  the  pigeon- 
house,  remorseful  shame,  and  then  —  after  all  these 
years,  during  which  he  had  not  gone  half  a  mile  from 
his  own  hearthstone  —  to  be  set  up  for  all  the  world 
to  see,  on  the  front  seat  of  a  market-cart,  back  to 
back  with  the  parish  constable,  and  jogged  off  as  if 
miles  were  nothing,  and  crowded  streets  were  nothing, 
and  the  Beaulieu  Gardens  were  nothing;  Master 
Shaw  talking  away  as  easily  as  if  they  were  sitting  in 
two  arm-chairs,  and  making  no  more  of  "  stepping 
into  "  a  lawyer's  office,  and  "  going  on  "  to  the  Town 


46  GRIEF   IS   WHERE   I   AM   WONT. 

Hall,  than  if  he  were  talking  of  stepping  up  to  his 
own  bedchamber  or  going  out  into  the  garden ! 

That  day  passed  like  a  dream,  and  Daddy  Darwin 
remembered  what  happened  in  it  as  one  remembers 
visions  of  the  night. 

He  had  a  vision  (a  very  unpleasing  vision)  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  Beaulieu  Gardens,  a  big  greasy  man, 
with  sinister  eyes  very  close  together,  and  a  hook 
nose,  and  a  heavy  watch-chain,  and  a  bullying  voice. 
He  browbeat  the  constable  very  soon,  and  even 
bullied  Master  Shaw  into  silence.  No  help  was  to  be 
had  from  him  in  his  loud  indignation  at  being  sup- 
posed to  traffic  with  thieves.  When  he  turned  the 
tables  by  talking  of  slander,  loss  of  time,  and  com- 
pensation, Daddy  Darwin  smelt  money,  and  trem- 
blingly whispered  to  Master  Shaw  to  apologize  and 
get  out  of  it.  "  They  're  gone  for  good,"  he  almost 
sobbed  ;  "  gone  for  good,  like  all  t'  rest !  And  I  '11 
not  be  long  after  'em." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  heard  a  sound  which  made 
him  lift  up  his  head.  It  was  Jack's  call  at  feeding- 
time  to  the  pigeons  at  the  Dovecot.  And  quick 
following  on  this  most  musical  and  most  familiar 
sound  there  came  another.  The  old  man  put  both 
his  lean  hands  behind  his  ears  to  be  sure  that  he 
heard  it  aright  —  the  sound  of  wings  —  the  wings 
of  a  dove ! 

The  other  men  heard  it  and  ran  in.  Whilst  they 
were  wrangling,  Jack  had  slipped  past  them,  and  had 
made  his  way  into  a  wired  enclosure  in  front  of  the 


AN   EASY   FOOL   IS   A   KNAVE'S   TOOL.  47 

pigeon-house.  And  there  they  found  him,  with  all 
the  captive  pigeons  coming  to  his  call;  flying,  flut- 
tering, strutting,  nestling  from  head  to  foot  of  hjm, 
he  scattering  peas  like  hail. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  not  a  choke  in  his 
voice.  His  iron  temperament  was  at  white  heat,  and, 
as  he  afterwards  said,  he  "  cared  no  more  for  yon  dirty 
chap  wi'  the  big  nose,  nor  if  he  were  a  ratten  l  in  a 
hayloft !  " 

"These  is  ours,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I'll  count  'em 
over,  and  see  if  they're  right.  There  was  only  one 
young  'un  that  could  fly.  A  white  'un."  ("It's 
here,"  interpolated  Master  Shaw.)  "  I  '11  pack  'em 
i'  yon,"  and  Jack  turned  his  thumb  to  a  heap  of 
hampers  in  a  corner.  "  T  carrier  can  leave  t'  bas- 
kets at  t'  toll-bar  next  Saturday,  and  ye  may  send 
your  lad  for  'em,  if  ye  keep  one." 

The  proprietor  of  the  Beaulieu  Gardens  was  not 
a  man  easily  abashed,  but  most  of  the  pigeons  were 
packed  before  he  had  fairly  resumed  his  previous 
powers  of  speech.  Then,  as  Master  Shaw  said,  he 
talked  "  on  the  other  side  of  his  mouth."  Most  willing 
was  he  to  help  to  bring  to  justice  the  scoundrels  who 
had  deceived  him  and  robbed  Mr.  Darwin,  but  he 
feared  they  would  be  difficult  to  trace.  His  own 
feeling  was  that  of  wishing  for  pleasantness  among 
neighbors.  The  pigeons  had  been  found  at  the  Gar- 
dens. That  was  enough.  He  would  be  glad  to  settle 
the  business  out  of  court. 

1  Anzlice  Rat. 


48  PUNISHMENT   IS   LAME,   BUT   IT   COMES. 

Daddy  Darwin  heard  the  chink  of  the  dirty  man's 
money,  and  would  have  compounded  the  matter  then 
and  there.  But  not  so  the  parish  constable,  who  saw 
himself  famous  ;  and  not  so  Jack,  who  turned  eyes  of 
smouldering  fire  on  Master  Shaw. 

"  Maester  Shaw !  you  '11  not  let  them  chaps  get  off? 
Daddy  's  mazelin  wi'  trouble,  sir,  but  I  reckon  you  '11 
see  to  it." 

"  If  it  costs  t'  worth  of  the  pigeons  ten  times  over, 
I  '11  see  to  it,  my  lad,"  was  Master  Shaw's  reply. 
And  the  parish  constable  rose  even  to  a  vein  of  satire 
as  he  avenged  himself  of  the  man  who  had  slighted 
his  office.  "Settle  it  out  of  court?  Ay!  I  dare 
say.  And  send  t'  same  chaps  to  fetch  'em  away  again 
t'  night  after.  Nay  —  bear  a  hand  with  this  hamper, 
Maester  Shaw,  if  you  please — if  it's  all  t'  same  to 
you,  Mr.  Proprietor,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  trouble 
you  to  step  up  to  t'  Town  Hall  by-and-by,  and  see 
if  we  can't  get  shut  of  them  mistaking  friends  o' 
yours  for  three  month  any  way." 

If  that  day  was  a  trying  one  to  Daddy  Darwin,  the 
night  that  followed  it  was  far  worse.  The  thieves 
were  known  to  the  police,  and  the  case  was  down  to 
come  on  at  the  Town  Hall  the  following  morning; 
but  meanwhile  the  constable  thought  fit  to  keep  the 
pigeons  under  his  own  charge  in  the  village  lock-up. 
Jack  refused  to  be  parted  from  his  birds,  and  re- 
mained with  them,  leaving  Daddy  Darwin  alone  in 
the  Dovecot.  He  dared  not  go  to  bed,  and  it  was 
not  a  pleasant  night  that  he  spent,  dozing  with  weari- 


DADDY  DARWIN  AND  THE  LAWYER.      49 

ness,   and  starting  up  with    fright,  in    an    arm-chair 
facing  the  money-hole. 

Some  things  that  he  had  been  nervous  about  he 
got  quite  used  to,  however.  He  bore  himself  with 
sufficient  dignity  in  the  publicity  of  the  Town  Hall, 
where  a  great  sensation  was  created  by  the  pigeons 
being  let  loose  without,  and  coming  to  Jack's  call. 
Some  of  them  fed  from  the  boy's  lips, 'and  he  was  the 
hero  of  the  hour,  to  Daddy  Darwin's  delight. 

Then  the  lawyer  and  the  lawyer's  office  proved 
genial  and  comfortable  to  him.  He  liked  civil  ways 
and  smooth  speech,  and  understood  them  far  better 
than  Master  Shaw's  brevity  and  uncouthness.  The 
lawyer  chatted  kindly  and  intelligently;  he  gave 
Daddy  Darwin  wine  and  biscuit,  and  talked  of  the 
long  standing  of  the  Darwin  family  and  its  vicissi- 
tudes; he  even  took  down  some  fat  yellow  books, 
,and  showed  the  old  man  how  many  curious  laws  had 
been  made  from  time  to  time  for  the  special  protec- 
tion of  pigeons  in  dovecots.  Very  ancient  statutes 
making  the  killing  of  a  house-dove  felony.  Then  I 
James  I.  c.  29,  awarded  three  months'  imprisonment 
"  without  bail  or  mainprise "  to  any  person  who 
should  "  shoot  at,  kill,  or  destroy  with  any  gun. 
crossbow,  stonebow,  or  longbow,  any  house-dove  or 
pigeon ;  "  but  allowed  an  alternative  fine  of  twenty 
shillings  to  be  paid  to  the  churchwardens  of  the  par- 
ish for  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  Daddy  Darwin  hoped 
there  was  no  such  alternative  in  this  case,  and  it 
proved  that  by  2   Geo.  III.  c.  29,  the  twenty-shilling 

4 


50     AN  OLD  MAN'S  STAFF  RAPS  ON  DEATH'S  DOOR. 

fine  was  transferred  to  the  owner  of  birds ;  at  which 
point  another  client  called,  and  the  polite  lawyer 
left  Daddy  to  study  the  laws  by  himself. 

It  was  when  Jack  was  helping  Master  Shaw  to  put 
the  horse  into  the  cart,  after  the  trial  was  over,  that 
the  farmer  said  to  him,  "  I  don't  want  to  put  you 
about,  my  lad,  but  I  'm  afraid  you  won't  keep  your 
master  long.  T'  old  gentleman  's  breaking  up,  mark 
my  words !  Constable  and  me  was  going  into  the 
George  for  a  glass,  and  Master  Darwin  left  us  and 
went  back  to  the  office.  I  says,  'What  are  ye  going 
back  to  t'  lawyer  for?  '  and  he  says,  'I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  Master  Shaw,  but  it 's  to  make  my  will.' 
And  off  he  goes.  Now,  there  's  only  two  more  things 
between  that  and  death,  Jack  March !  And  one  's 
the  parson,  and  t'  other 's  the  doctor." 


SCENE    VIII. 


ITTLE  Phoebe  Shaw 
coming  out  of  the  day- 
school,  and  picking  her 
way  home  to  tea,  was 
startled  by  folk  running  past  her,  and  by  a  sound  of 
cheering  from  the  far  end  of  the  village,  which  grad- 
ually increased  in  volume,  and  was  caught  up  by  the 
bystanders  as  they  ran.  When  Phcebe  heard  that  it 
was  "  Constable,  and  Master  Shaw,  and  Daddy  Dar- 
win and  his  lad,  coming  home,  and  the  pigeons  along 
w\'  'em,"  she  felt  inclined  to  run  too ;  but  a  fit  of  shy- 
ness came  over  her,  and  she  demurely  decided  to  wait 
by  the  school-gate  till  they  came  her  way.  They  did 
not  come.  They  stopped.  What  were  they  doing  ? 
Another  bystander  explained,  "They  're  shaking  hands 
wi'  Daddy,  and  I  reckon  they  're  making  him  put  up 
t'  birds  here,  to  see  'em  go  home  to  t'  Dovecot " 

Phcebe  ran  as  if  for  her  life.     She  loved  beast  and 
bird  as  well  as  Jack  himself,  and  the  fame  of  Daddy 


52 


HOME.      SWEET   HOME! 


Darwin's  doves  was  great.  To  see  them  put  up  by 
him  to  fly  home  after  such  an  adventure  was  a  sight 
not  lightly  to  be  foregone.    The  crowd  had  moved  to 


[ffl 


a  hillock  in  a  neighboring  field  before  she  touched 
its  outskirts.  By  that  time  it  pretty  well  numbered 
the  population  of  the  village,  from  the  oldest  inhabi- 


HOME.      SWEET    HOME  !  53 

tant  to  the  youngest  that  could  run.  Phoebe  had  her 
mother's  courage  and  resource.  Chirping  out  feebly 
but  clearly,  "  I  'm  Maester  Shaw's  little  lass,  will  ye 
let  me  through?  "  she  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
till  her  little  fingers  found  themselves  in  Jack's  tight 
clasp,  and  he  fairly  lifted  her  to  her  father's  side. 

She  was  just  in  time.  Some  of  the  birds  had  hung 
about  Jack,  nervous,  or  expecting  peas;  but  the 
hesitation  was  past.  Free  in  the  sweet  sunshine  — 
beating  down  the  evening  air  with  silver  wings  and 
their  feathers  like  gold  —  ignorant  of  cold  eggs  and 
callow  young  dead  in  deserted  nests  —  sped  on  their 
way  by  such  a  roar  as  rarely  shook  the  Tillage  in 
its  body  corporate — they  flew  straight  home  —  to 
Paddy  Darwin's  Dovecot- 


SCENE    IX. 


VM  ADDY  DAR- 
WIN lived  a 
good  many 
years  after 
making  his 
will,  and  the 
Dovecot 
prospered  in 
his  hands. 
It  would 
be  more 
just  to  say 
that  it 
prospered 
in  the 
hands  of  Jack  March.  By  hook  and  by  crook  he 
increased  the  live  stock  about  the  place.  Folk  were 
kind  to  one  who  had  set  so  excellent  an  example  to 
other  farm  lads,  though  he  lacked  the  primal  virtue 
of  belonging  to  the  neighborhood.  He  bartered 
pigeons  for  fowls,  and  some  one  gave  him  a  sitting  of 
eggs  to  "  see  what  he  would  make  of  'em."  Master 
Shaw  gave  him  a  little  pig,  with  kind  words  and  good 


LOVE   IS   THE   PRICE   OF   LOVE.  55 

counsel ;  and  Jack  cleaned  out  the  disused  pigstyes, 
which  were  never  disused  again.  He  scrubbed  his 
pigs  with  soap  and  water  as  if  they  had  been  Chris- 
tians, and  the  admirable  animals,  regardless  of  the 
pork  they  were  coming  to,  did  him  infinite  credit, 
and  brought  him  profit  into  the  bargain,  which  he 
spent  on  ducks'  eggs,  and  other  additions  to  his  farm- 
yard family. 

The  Shaws  were  very  kind  to  him ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Shaw's  secrets  must  be  told,  it  was  because  Phoebe 
was  so  unchangeably  and  increasingly  kind  to  him, 
that  she  sent  the  pretty  maid  (who  had  a  knack  of 
knowing  her  own  mind  about  things)  to  service. 

Jack  March  was  a  handsome,  stalwart  youth  now, 
of  irreproachable  conduct,  and  with  qualities  which 
Mrs.  Shaw  particularly  prized ;  but  he  was  but  a 
farm-lad,  and  no  match  for  her  daughter. 

Jack  only  saw  his  sweetheart  once  during  several 
years.  She  had  not  been  well,  and  was  at  home  for 
the  benefit  of  "  native  air."  He  walked  over  the  hill 
with  her  as  they  returned  from  church,  and  lived  on 
the  remembrance  of  that  walk  for  two  or  three  years 
more.  Phoebe  had  given  him  her  Prayer-book  to 
carry,  and  he  had  found  a  dead  flower  in  it,  and  had 
been  jealous.  She  had  asked  if  he  knew  what  it  was, 
and  he  had  replied  fiercely  that  he  did  not,  and  was 
not  sure  that  he  cared  to  know. 

"  Ye  never  did  know  much  about  flowers,"  said 
Phcebe,  demurely;   "  it's  red  bergamot." 

"  I  love  —  red  bergamot,"  he  whispered  penitently. 


56 


THE  THINGS   OF  THE   SPIRIT. 


"  And  thou  owes  me  a  bit  I  gave  thee  some  once." 
And  Phoebe  had  let  him  put  the  withered  bits  into 
his  own  hymn-book,  which  was  more  than  he  de- 
served. 

Jack  was  still  in  the  choir,  and  taught  in  the  Sun- 
day-school where  he  used  to  learn.     The  parson's 


^ 


daughter  had  had  her  way;  Daddy  Darwin  grumbled 
at  first,  but  in  the  end  he  got  a  bottle-green  Sunday- 
coat  out  of  the  oak-press  that  matched  the  bedstead, 
and  put  the  house-key  into  his  pocket,  and  went  to 
church  too.     Now,  for  years  past  he  had  not  failed 


IN   THE   NAME   OF   GOD:    AMEN.  57 

to  take  his  place,  week  by  week,  in  the  pew  that  was 
traditionally  appropriated  to  the  use  of  the  Darwins 
of  Dovecot.  In  such  an  hour  the  sordid  cares  of  the 
secret  panel  weighed  less  heavily  on  his  soul,  and  the 
things  that  are  not  seen  came  nearer  —  the  house  not 
made  with  hands,  the  treasures  that  rust  and  moth 
corrupt  not,  and  which  thieves  do  not  break  through 
to  steal. 

Daddy  Darwin  died  of  old  age.  As  his  health 
failed,  Jack  nursed  him  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
woman;  and  kind  inquiries,  and  dainties  which  Jack 
could  not  have  cooked,  came  in  from  many  quarters 
where  it  pleased  the  old  man  to  find  that  he  was  held 
in  respect  and  remembrance. 

One  afternoon,  coming  in  from  the  farmyard,  Jack 
found  him  sitting  by  the  kitchen-table  as  he  had  left 
him,  but  with  a  dread  look  of  change  upon  his  face. 
At  first  he  feared  there  had  been  "  a  stroke,"  but 
Daddy  Darwin's  mind  was  clear  and  his  voice  firmer 
than  usual. 

"  My  lad,"  he  said,  "  fetch  me  yon  teapot  out  of 
the  corner  cupboard.  T'  one  wi'  a  pole-house * 
painted  on  it,  and  some  letters.  Take  care  how  ye 
shift  it.  It  were  t'  merry  feast-pot  2  at  my  christen- 
ing, and  yon  's  t'  letters  of  my  father's  and  mother's 
names.  Take  off  t'  lid.  There  's  two  bits  of  paper 
in  the  inside." 

1  A  pole-house  is  a  small  dovecot  on  the  top  of  a  pole. 

2  "  Merry  feast-pot"  is  a  name  given  to  old  pieces  of  ware,  made  irt 
local  potteries  for  local  festivals.  * 


58  DADDY,   NOT   MAESTER. 

Jack  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  laid  the  papers  (one 
small  and  yellow  with  age,  the  other  bigger,  and 
blue,  and  neatly  written  upon)  at  his  master's  right 
hand. 

"  Read  yon,"  said  the  old  man,  pushing  the  small 
one  towards  him.  Jack  took  it  up  wondering.  It 
was  the  letter  he  had  written  from  the  workhouse 
fifteen  years  before.  That  was  all  he  could  see. 
The  past  surged  up  too  thickly  before  his  eyes,  and 
tossing  it  impetuously  from  him,  he  dropped  on  a 
chair  by  the  table,  and  snatching  Daddy  Darwin's 
hands  he  held  them  to  his  face  with  tears. 

"  God  bless  thee  !  "  he  sobbed.  "  You  've  been  a 
good  maester  to  me  !  " 

"  Daddy"  wheezed  the  old  man.  "  Daddy,  not 
maester."  And  drawing  his  right  hand  away,  he  laid 
it  solemnly  on  the  young  man's  head.  "  God  bless 
thee,  and  reward  thee.  What  have  I  done  i'  my  feck- 
less life  to  deserve  a  son?  But  if  ever  a  lad  earned 
a  father  and  a  home,  thou  hast  earned  'em,  Jack 
March." 

He  moved  his  hand  again  and  laid  it  trembling  on 
the  paper. 

"  Every  word  i'  this  letter  ye  've  made  good. 
Every  word,  even  to  t'  bit  at  the  end.  '  I  love  them 
Tumblers  as  if  they  were  my  own,'  says  you.  Lift 
thee  head,  lad,  and  look  at  me.  They  are  thy  own  / 
.  .  .  Yon  blue  paper's  my  last  will  and  testament, 
made  many  a  year  back  by  Mr.  Brown,  of  Green 
Street,  Solicitor,  and  a  very  nice  gentleman  too ;   and 


THIS   IS   THE   LAST   WILL  AND   TESTAMENT.       59 

witnessed  by  his  clerks,  two  decent  young  chaps,  and 
civil  enough,  but  with  too  much  watch-chain  for  their 
situation.  Jack  March,  my  son,  I  have  left  thee 
maester  of  Dovecot  and  all  that  I  have.  And  there's 
a  bit  of  money  in  t'  bed-head  that'll  help  thee  to 
make  a  fair  start,  and  to  bury  me  decently  atop  of 
my  father  and  mother.  Ye  may  let  Bill  Sexton  toll 
an  hour-bell  for  me,  for  I  'm  a  old  standard,  if  I  never 
were  good  for  much.  Maybe  I  might  ha'  done  better 
if  things  had  happed  in  a  different  fashion ;  but  the 
Lord  knows  all.  I  'd  like  a  hymn  at  the  grave,  Jack, 
if  the  Vicar  has  no  objections,  and  do  thou  sing  if 
thee  can.  Don't  fret,  my  son,  thou  'at  no  cause. 
'T  was  that  sweet  voice  o'  thine  took  me  back  again 
to  public  worship,  and  it's  not  t'  least  of  all  I  owe 
thee,  Jack  March.  A  poor  reason,  lad,  for  taking  up 
with  a  neglected  duty  —  a  poor  reason  —  but  the 
Lord  is  a  God  of  mercy,  or  there  'd  be  small  chance 
for  most  on  us.  If  Miss  Jenny  and  her  husband 
come  to  t'  Vicarage  this  summer,  say  I  left  her  my 
duty  and  an  old  man's  blessing;  and  if  she  wants 
any  roots  out  of  t'  garden,  give  'em  her,  and  give 
her  yon  old  chest  that  stands  in  the  back  chamber. 
It  belonged  to  an  uncle  of  my  mother's  —  a  Derby- 
shire man.  They  say  her  husband 's  a  rich  gentle- 
man, and  treats  her  very  well.  I  reckon  she  may 
have  what  she 's  a  mind,  new  and  polished,  but 
she 's  always  for  old  lumber.  They  're  a  whimsical 
lot,  gentle  and  simple.  And  talking  of  women,  Jack, 
I  've  a  word  to  say,  if  I  can  fetch  my  breath  to  say  it. 


6o  DADDY   DARWIN'S   LAST   ADVICE. 

Lad !  as  sure  as  you  're  maester  of  Dovecot,  you  '11 
give  it  a  missus.  Now  take  heed  to  me.  If  ye  fetch 
any  woman  home  here  but  Phoebe  Shaw,  I  '11  walk, 
and  scare  ye  away  from  t'  old  place.  I  'm  willing  for 
Phoebe,  and  I  charge  ye  to  tell  the  lass  so  hereafter. 
And  tell  her  it 's  not  because  she  's  fair —  too  many 
on  'em  are  that ;  and  not  because  she  's  thrifty  and 
houseproud  —  her  mother  's  that,  and  she  's  no  favor- 
ite of  mine  ;  but  because  I  've  watched  her  whenever 
t'  ould  cat  's  let  her  be  at  home,  and  it 's  my  belief 
that  she  loves  ye,  knowing  nought  of  this "  (he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  will),  "  and  that  she'll  stick  to  ye, 
choose  what  her  folk  may  say.  Ay,  ay,  she 's  not 
one  of  t'  sort  that  quits  a  falling  house  —  like  rattens." 

Language  fails  to  convey  the  bitterness  which  the 
old  man  put  into  these  last  two  words.  It  exhausted 
him,  and  his  mind  wandered.  When  he  had  to  some 
extent  recovered  himself  he  spoke  again,  but  very 
feebly. 

"  Tak'  my  duty  to  the  Vicar,  lad,  Daddy  Darwin's 
duty,  and  say  he  's  at  t'  last  feather  of  the  shuttle,  and 
would  be  thankful  for  the  Sacrament." 

The  Parson  had  come  and  gone.  Daddy  Darwin 
did  not  care  to  lie  down,  he  breathed  with  difficulty; 
so  Jack  made  him  easy  in  a  big  arm-chair,  and  raked 
up  the  fire  with  cinders,  and  took  a  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth  to  watch  with  him.  The  old  man 
slept  comfortably,  and  at  last,  much  wearied,  the 
young  man  dozed  also. 


LOVE  'S   NOT  TIME'S   FOOL. 


61 


He  awoke  because  Daddy  Darwin  moved,  but  for 
a  moment  he  thought  he  must  be  dreaming.  So 
erect  the  old  man  stood,  and  with  such  delight  in 
his  wide-open  eyes.  They  were  looking  over  Jack's 
head. 

All  that  the  lad  had  never  seen  upon  his  face 
seemed  to  have  come  back  to  it  —  youth,  hope,  reso- 
lution, tenderness.  His  lips  were  trembling  with  the 
smile  of  acutest  joy. 

Suddenly  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  crying, 
"Alice!"  started  forward  and  fell  —  dead  —  on  the 
breast  of  his  adopted  son. 


■RAW!  Craw!  Craw!  The 
crows  flapped  slowly  home, 
and  the  Gaffers  moved  off 
too.  The  sun  was  down, 
and  "  damps "  are  bad  for 
"  rheumatics." 

"  It 's  a  strange  tale,"  said 
Gaffer  II.,  "  but  if  all 's  true 
ye  tell  me,  there  's  not  too 
many  like  him." 

"  That  's  right  enough," 
Gaffer  I.  admitted.  "  He  's 
been  t'  same  all  through,  and 
ye  should  ha'  seen  the  bury- 
ing he  gave  t'  ould  chap. 
He  was  rare  and  good  to  him  by  all  accounts,  and 


62  THE   EVENING  BRINGS   ALL  HOME. 

never  gainsaid  him  ought,  except  i'  not  lifting  his 
voice  as  he  should  ha'  done  at  t'  grave.  Jack  sings 
a  bass  solo  as  well  as  any  man  i'  t'  place;  but  he 
stood  yonder,  for  all  t'  world  like  one  of  them  crows, 
black  o'  visage,  and  black  wi'  funeral  clothes,  and 
choked  with  crying  like  a  child  i'stead  of  a  man." 

"  Well,  well,  t'  ould  chap  were  all  he  had,  I  reckon," 
said  Gaffer  II. 

"  That  's  right  enough ;  and  for  going  backwards, 
as  ye  may  say,  and  setting  a  wild  graff  on  an  old 
standard,  yon  will's  done  well  for  DADDY  DARWIN'S 
Dovecot." 


THE  END. 


THE   STORY  OF  A   SHORT  LIFE. 


mm 


"  Do  you  know  now  when  I  am  wheeling  about  in  my  chair,  and  playing  with  him  and  he  looks 
at  me  wherever  I  go  ;  sometimes  for  a  bit  I  forget  about  the  King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry  for  me. 
Under  the  table  was  the  only  place  where  I  could  get  outof  the  sisrht  of  his  e yes."  —  Frontit*Oce. 


THE 


Story  of  a  Short  Life 


BY 


JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING, 

AUTHOR  OF  "JACKANAPES,"  "  DADDY  DARWIN;S  DOVECOT,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY   GORDON  BROWNE. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1889. 


•*  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhored  shears 
And  slits  the  thin  spun  life,  — '  But  not  the  praise.'  " 

Milton. 

"  It  is  a  calumny  on  men  to  say  that  they  are  rous^  to  heroic  action  by  ease, 
hope  of  pleasure,  recompense,  —  sugar-plums  of  any  kind  in  this  world  or  the 
next !  In  the  meanest  mortal  there  lies  something  nobler.  .  .  .  Difficulty,  abne- 
gation, martyrdom,  death  are  the  allurements  that  act  on  the  heart  of  man. 
Kindle  the  inner  genial  life  of  him,  you  have  aflame  that  burns  up  all  lower 
considerations.  .  . .  Not  by  flattering  our  appetites;  no,  by  awakening  the  Heroic 
that  slumbers  in  every  heart."  —  Carlylt. 


CHAPTER   I. 


"Arma  virumque  cano."  —  sEneid. 

•Man  —  and  the  horseradish  —  are  most  biting  when  grated."  — 

Jean  Paul  Richter. 


OST  annoy- 
ing I  "  said 
the  Master  of 
the  House. 
His  thick  eye- 
brows were 
puckered  just 
then  with  the 
vexation  of 
his  thoughts; 
but  the  lines 
of  annoyance 
on  his  fore- 
head were  to 
some  extent 
fixed  lines. 
They  helped 
to  make  him 
look  old  ef 
than  his  age 
—  he  was  not 
forty    —    and 

they  gathered  into  a  fierce  frown  as  his   elbow  was 

softly  touched  by  his  little  son. 


6        DULCE   ET   DECORUM   EST   PRO    PATRIA   MORI. 

The  child  was  defiantly  like  his  father,  even  to  a 
knitted  brow,  for  his  whole  face  was  crumpled  with 
the  vigor  of  some  resolve  which  he  found  it  hard 
to  keep,  and  which  was  symbolized  by  his  holding 
the  little  red  tip  of  his  tongue  betwixt  finger  and 
thumb. 

"  Put  your  hands  down,  Leonard  !  Put  your  tongue 
in,  sir!  What  are  you  after?  What  do  you  want? 
WThat  are  you  doing  here?  Be  off  to  the  nursery, 
and  tell  Jemima  to  keep  you  there.  Your  mother 
and  I  are  busy." 

Far  behind  the  boy,  on  the  wall,  hung  the  portrait 
of  one  of  his  ancestors  —  a  youth  of  sixteen.  The 
painting  was  by  Vandyck,  and  it  was  the  most  valu- 
able of  the  many  valuable  things  that  strewed  and 
decorated  the  room.  A  very  perfect  example  of  the 
great  master's  work,  and  uninjured  by  Time.  The 
young  Cavalier's  face  was  more  interesting  than  hand- 
some, but  so  eager  and  refined  that,  set  off  as  it  was 
by  pale-hued  satin  and  falling  hair,  he  might  have 
been  called  effeminate,  if  his  brief  life,  which  ended 
on  the  field  of  Naseby,  had  not  done  more  than 
common  to  prove  his  manhood.  A  coat-of-arms, 
blazoned  in  the  corner  of  the  painting,  had  some  ap- 
pearance of  having  been  added  later.  Below  this 
was  rudely  inscribed,  in  yellow  paint,  the  motto 
which  also  decorated  the  elaborate  stone  mantlepiece 
opposite  —  Lcetiis  sorte  mea. 

Leonard  was  very  fond  of  that  picture.  It  was 
known  to  his  childish  affections  as  "  Uncle  Rupert." 


DULCE   ET   DECORUM   EST   PRO    PATRIA   MORI.        J 

He  constantly  wished  that  he  could  get  into  the  frame 
and  play  with  the  dog  —  the  dog  with  the  upturned 
face  and  melancholy  eyes,  and  odd  resemblance  to  a 
long-haired  Cavalier  —  on  whose  faithful  head  Uncle 
Rupert's  slender  fingers  perpetually  reposed. 

Though  not  able  to  play -with  the  dog,  Leonard  did 
play  with  Uncle  Rupert  —  the  game  of  trying  to  get 
out  of  the  reach  of  his  eyes. 

"I  play  'Puss-in-the-corner'  with  him,"  the  child 
was  wont  to  explain ;  "  but  whichever  corner  I  get 
into,  his  eyes  come  after  me.  The  dog  looks  at 
Uncle  Rupert  always,  and  Uncle  Rupert  always  looks 
at  me." 

.  .  .  .  "  To  see  if  you  are  growing  up  a  good  boy 
and  a  gallant  young  gentleman,  such  as  he  was." 
So  Leonard's  parents  and  guardians  explained  the 
matter  to  him,  and  he  devoutedly  believed  them. 

Many  an  older  and  less  credulous  spectator  stood 
in  the  light  of  those  painted  eyes,  and  acknowledged 
their  spell.  Very  marvellous  was  the  cunning  which, 
by  dabs  and  streaks  of  color,  had  kept  the  spirit  of 
this  long  dead  youth  to  gaze  at  his  descendants  from 
a  sheet  of  canvas  and  stir  the  sympathy  of  strangers, 
parted  by  more  than  two  centuries  from  his  sorrows, 
with  the  mock  melancholy  of  painted  tears.  For 
whether  the  painter  had  just  overdone  some  trick  of 
representing  their  liquidness,  or  whether  the  boy's 
eyes  had  brimmed  over  as  he  was  standing  for  his 
portrait  (his  father  and  elder  brother  had  died  in  the 
civil  war  before  him),  there  remains  no  tradition   to 


8  WORD  AND   HONOR. 

tell.     But  Vandyck  never  painted  a  portrait  fuller  of 
sad  dignity,  even  in  those  troubled  times. 

Happily  for  his  elders,  Leonard  invented  for  him- 
self a  reason  for  the  obvious  tears. 

"  I  believe  Uncle  Rupert  knew  that  they  were  going 
to  chop  the  poor  king 's  head  off,  and  that 's  why  he 
looks  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry." 

It  was  partly  because  the  child  himself  looked  as  if 
he  were  going  to  cry  —  and  that  not  fractiously,  but 
despite  a  struggle  with  himself — that,  as  he  stood 
before  the  Master  of  the  House,  he  might  have  been 
that  other  master  of  the  same  house  come  to  life 
again  at  six  years  of  age.  His  long,  fair  hair,  the 
pliable,  nervous  ringers,  which  he  had  put  down  as  he 
was  bid,  the  strenuous  tension  of  his  little  figure  un- 
der a  sense  of  injustice,  and,  above  all,  his  beautiful 
eyes,  in  which  the  tears  now  brimmed  over  the  eye- 
lashes as  the  waters  of  a  lake  well  up  through  the 
reeds  that  fringe  its  banks.  He  was  very  very  like 
Uncle  Rupert  when  he  turned  those  eyes  on  his 
mother  in  mute  reproach. 

Lady  Jane  came  to  his  defence. 

"  I  think  Leonard  meant  to  be  good.  I  made  him 
promise  me  to  try  and  cure  himself  of  the  habit 
of  speaking  to  you  when  you  are  speaking  to  some 
one  else.  But,  dear  Leonard "  (and  she  took  the 
hand  that  had  touched  his  father's  elbow),  "  I  don't 
think  you  were  quite  on  honor  when  you  inter- 
rupted Father  with  this  hand,  though  you  were  hold- 
ing your  tongue  with  the  other.     That  is  what  we 


WORD   AND    HONOR.  9 

call  keeping  a  promise  to  the  ear  and  breaking  it  to 
the  sense." 

All  the  Cavalier  dignity  came  unstarched  in  Leon- 
ard's figure.  With  aTed  face,  he  answered  bluntly, 
"  I  'm  very  sorry.     I  meant  to  keep  my  promise." 

"  Next  time  keep  it  well,  as  a  gentleman  should. 
Now,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  Pencil  and  paper,  please." 

"There  they  are.  Take  them  to  the  nursery,  as 
Father  told  you." 

Leonard  looked  at  his  father.  He  had  not  been 
spoilt  for  six  years  by  an  irritable  and  indulgent  par- 
ent without  learning  those  arts  of  diplomacy  in  which 
children  quickly  become  experts. 

"  Oh,  he  can  stay,"  said  the  Master  of  the  House, 
"  and  he  may  say  a  word  now  and  then,  if  he  does  n't 
talk  too  much.  Boys  can't  sit  mumchance  always  — 
can  they,  Len?  There;  kiss  your  poor  old  father, 
and  get  away,  and  keep  quiet." 

Lady  Jane  made  one  of  many  fruitless  efforts  on 
behalf  of  discipline. 

"  I  think,  dear,  as  you  told  him  to  go,  he  had  better 
go  now." 

"  He  will  go,  pretty  sharp,  if  he  is  n't  good.  Now, 
for  pity's  sake,  let 's  talk  out  this  affair,  and  let  me  get 
back  to  my  work." 

"  Have  you  been  writing  poetry  this  mornings 
Father  dear?"  Leonard  inquired,  urbanely. 

He  was  now  lolling  against  a  writing-table  of  the 
first   empire,  where    sheets  of  paper   lay  like   fallen 


IO  CROSS    QUESTIONS 

leaves  among  Japanese  bronzes,  old  and  elaborate 
candlesticks,  grotesque  letter-clips  and  paper-weights, 
quaint  pottery,  big  seals,  and  spring  flowers  in  slender 
Venetian  glasses  of  many  colours. 

"  I  wrote  three  lines,  and  was  interrupted  four 
times,"  replied  his  sire,  with  bitter  brevity. 

"  I  think  I'll  write  some  poetry.  I  don't  mind  be- 
ing interrupted.     May  I  have  your  ink?" 

"  No,  you  may  not ! "  roared  the  Master  of  the 
House  and  of  the  inkpot  of  priceless  china 
which  Leonard  had  seized.  "  Now,  be  off  to  the 
nursery !" 

"  I  won't  touch  anything.  I  am  going  to  draw  out 
of  the  window,"  said  Leonard,  calmly. 

He  had  practised  the  art  of  being  troublesome  to 
the  verge  of  expulsion  ever  since  he  had  had  a  whim 
of  his  own,  and  as  skilfully  as  he  played  other  games. 
He  was  seated  among  the  cushions  of  the  oriel  win- 
dow-seat (colored  rays  from  coats-of-arms  in  the 
upper  panes  falling  on  his  fair  hair  with  a  fanciful 
effect  of  canonizing  him  for  his  sudden  goodness) 
almost  before  his  father  could  reply. 

"  I  advise  you  to  stay  there,  and  to  keep  quiet." 
Lady  Jane  took  up  the  broken  thread  of  conversation 
in  despair. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him?  " 

"Yes ;  years  ago." 

"  You  know  I  never  saw  either.  Your  sister  was 
much  older  than  you  ;   was  n't  she?  " 

"  The  shadows  move  so  on  the  grass,  and  the  elms 


AND   CROOKED   ANSWERS.  I  I 

have  so  many  branches,  I  think  I  shall  turn  round  and 
drazv  the  fi 'replace"  murmured  Leonard. 

"  Ten  years.  You  may  be  sure,  if  I  had  been 
grown  up  I  should  never  have  allowed  the  marriage. 
I  cannot  think  what  possessed  my  father  — " 

"  Z  am  doing  the  inscription!  I  can  print  Old  Eng- 
lish. What  does  L.  diphthong  jE.  T.  U.  S.  meanf" 
said  Leonard. 

"  It  means  joyful,  contented,  happy.  —  I  was  at  Eton 
at  the  time.     Disastrous  ill-luck  !  " 

"  Are  there  any  children?" 

"  One  son.  And  to  crown  all,  his  regiment  is  at 
Asholt.     Nice  family  party  !  " 

"  A  young  man  !      Has  he  been  well  brought  up  ?  " 

"  What  does  — " 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Leonard? — Is  he 
likely  to  have  been  well  brought  up?  However,  he's 
4  in  the  Service,'  as  they  say.  I  wish  it  did  n't  make 
one  think  of  flunkies,  what  with  the  word  service, 
and  the  liveries  (I  mean  uniforms),  and  the  legs,  and 
shoulders,  and  swagger,  and  tag-rags,  and  epaulettes, 
and  the  fatiguing  alertness  and  attentiveness  of  men 


)  >» 


in  the  Service. 

The  Master  of  the  House  spoke  with  the  pettish 
accent  of  one  who  says  what  he  does  not  mean, 
partly  for  lack  of  something  better  to  do,  and  partly 
to  avenge  some  inward  vexation  upon  his  hearers. 
He  lounged  languidly  on  a  couch,  but  Lady  Jane  sat 
upright,  and  her  eyes  gave  an  unwonted  flash.  She 
came  of  an  ancient  Scottish  race,  that  had  shed  its 


12  CROSS  QUESTIONS,   ETC. 

blood  like  water  on  many  a  battle-field,  generations 
before  the  family  of  her  English  husband  had  become 
favorites  at  the  Court  of  the  Tudors. 

'•  I  have  so  many  military  belongings,  both  in  the 
past  and  the  present,  that  I  have  a  respect  for  the 
Service  —  " 

He  got  up,  and  patted  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  child.  Et  ego  —  "  and  he 
looked  at  Uncle  Rupert,  who  looked  sadly  back 
again :  "  but  you  must  make  allowances  for  me. 
Asholt  Camp  has  been  a  thorn  in  my  side  from 
the  first.  And  now  to  have  the  barrack-master,  and 
the  youngest  subaltern  of  a  marching  regiment  —  " 

"  He's  our  nephew,  Rupert!  " 

"Mine  —  not  yours.  You've  nothing  to  do  with 
him,  thank  goodness." 

"  Your  people  are  my  people.  Now  do  not  worry 
yourself.  Of  course  I  shall  call  on  your  sister  at 
once.     Will  they  be  here  for  some  time?  " 

"  Five  years,  you  may  depend.  He  's  just  the  sort 
of  man  to  wedge  himself  into  a  snug  berth  at  Ash- 
olt. You  're  an  angel,  Jane ;  you  always  are.  But 
fighting  ancestors  are  one  thing,  a  barrack-master 
brother-in-law  is  another." 

"  Has  he  done  any  fighting?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  !  Bemedalled  like  that  Guy  Fawkes 
General  in  the  pawnbroker's  window,  that  Len  was  so 
charmed  by.     But,  my  dear,  I  assure  you  —  " 

"  /  only  just  want  to  know  what  S.  O.  R.  T.  E. 
M.  E.  A.  means?  Leonard  hastily  broke  in.     "I've 


THEN  WOULD  HE  SING  ACHIEVEMENTS  HIGH        1 3 

done  it  all  nozv,  and  shdrit  want  to  know  anything 
more." 

"  Sorte  mea  is  Latin  for  My  fate,  or  My  lot  in  life. 
L&tus  sorte  mea  means  Happy  in  my  lot.  It  is  our 
family  motto.  Now,  if  you  ask  another  question,  off 
you  go  !  —  After  all,  Jane,  you  must  allow  it's  about 
as  hard  lines  as  could  be,  to  have  a  few  ancestral 
acres  and  a  nice  old  place  in  one  of  the  quietest, 
quaintest  corners  of  Old  England ;  and  for  Govern- 
ment to  come  and  plant  a  Camp  of  Instruction,  as 
they  call  it,  and  pour  in  tribes  of  savages  in  war- 
paint to  build  wigwams  within  a  couple  of  miles  of 
your  lodge-gates !  " 

She  laughed  heartily. 

"  Dear  Rupert !  You  are  a  born  poet !  You  do 
magnify  your  woes  so  grandly.  What  was  the 
brother-in-law  like  when  you  saw  him?" 

"  Oh,  the  regular  type.  Hair  cut  like  a  pauper, 
or  a  convict "  (the  Master  of  the  House  tossed 
his  own  locks  as  he  spoke),  "  big,  swaggering  sort  of 
fellow,  swallowed  the  poker  and  not  digested  it,  rather 
good  features,  acclimatized  complexion,  tight  fit  of 
hot-red  cloth,  and  general  pipeclay." 

"  Then  he  must  be  the  Sapper  !  "  Leonard  announced, 
as  he  advanced  with  a  firm  step  and  kindling  eyes 
from  the  window.  "  Jemima's  other  brother  is  a 
Gunner.  He  dresses  in  blue.  But  they  both  pipe- 
clay their  gloves,  and  I  pipeclayed  mine  this  morn- 
ing, when  she  did  the  hearth.  You  've  no  idea  how 
nasty  they  look  whilst  it's  wet,  but  they  dry  as  white 


14  AND   CIRCUMSTANCE   OF   CHIVALRY. 

as  snow,  only  mine  fell  among  the  cinders.  The 
Sapper  is  very  kind,  both  to  her  and  to  me  He 
gave  her  a  brooch,  and  he  is  making  me  a  wooden 
fort  to  put  my  cannon  in.  But  the  Gunner  is  such 
a  funny  man  !  I  said  to  him,  '  Gunner  !  why  do  you 
wear  white  gloves?  '  and  he  said,  'Young  gentleman, 
why  does  a  miller  wear  a  white  hat?'  He's  very 
funny.  Bu.t  I  think  I  like  the  tidy  one  best  of  all. 
He  is  so  very  beautiful,  and  I  should  think  he  must 
be  very  brave." 

That  Leonard  was  permitted  to  deliver  himself  of 
this  speech  without  a  check  can  only  have  been  due 
to  the  paralyzing  nature  of  the  shock  which  it  in- 
flicted on  his  parents,  and  of  which  he  himself  was 
pleasantly  unconscious.  His  whole  soul  was  in  the 
subject,  and  he  spoke  with  a  certain  grace  and  direct- 
ness of  address,  and  with  a  clear  and  facile  enuncia- 
tion, which  were  among  the  child's  most  conspicuous 
marks  of  good  breeding. 

"This  is  nice!  "  said  the  Master  of  the  House  be- 
tween his  teeth  with  a  deepened  scowl. 

The  air  felt  stormy,  and  Leonard  began  to  coax. 
He  laid  his  curls  against  his  father's  arm,  and  asked, 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  tidy  one,  Father  dear?  He  is  a 
very  splendid  sort  of  man." 

"What  nonsense  are  you  talking?  What  do  you 
mean  by  a  tidy  one?" 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  storm  now;  and 
Leonard  began  to  feel  helpless,  and,  as  usual  in  such 
circumstances,  turned  to  Lady  Jane. 


THEN 'WOULD   HE   SING,   ETC.  I  5 

"  Mother  told  me  !  "  he  gasped. 

The  Master  of  the  House  also  turned  to  Lady  Jane. 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  of  this  before?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  seized  his  son  by  the 
shoulder. 

"  If  that  woman  has  taught  you  to  tell  untruths  — " 

Lady  Jane  firmly  interposed. 

"Leonard  never  tells  untruths,  Rupert.  Please 
don't  frighten  him  into  doing  so.  Now,  Leonard, 
don't  be  foolish  and  cowardly.  Tell  Mother  quite 
bravely  all  about  it.     Perhaps  she  has  forgotten." 

The  child  was  naturally  brave ;  but  the  elements  of 
excitement  and  uncertainty  in  his  up-bringing  were 
producing  their  natural  results  in  a  nervous  and  un- 
equable temperament.     It  is  not  the  least  serious  of 
the    evils    of  being    "  spoilt,"   though,    perhaps,    the 
most  seldom  recognized.     Many  a  fond  parent  justly 
fears  to  overdo  "  lessons,"  who  is  surprisingly  blind 
to  the  brain-fag  that  comes  from  the  strain  to  live  at 
grown-up  people's  level ;   and  to  the  nervous  exhaust- 
ion produced  in  children,  no  less  than  in  their  elders, 
by  indulged  restlessness,  discontent,  and  craving  for 
fresh  excitement,  and  for  want  of  that  sense  of  power 
and  repose  which  comes  with  habitual  obedience  to 
righteous  rules  and  regulations.      Laws  that  can  be 
set  at  nought  are   among  the  most  demoralizing   of 
influences  which  can  curse  a  nation ;   and  their  effects 
are  hardly  less  disastrous  in  the  nursery.     Moreover, 
an  uncertain  discipline  is  apt  to  take  even  the  spoilt 
by  surprise  :   and  as  Leonard  seldom  fully  understood 


1 6     WITH   BURNISHED   BRAND  AND  MUSKETOON. 


. 


the  checks  he  did  receive,  they  unnerved  him.  He 
was  unnerved  now;  and,  even  with  his  hand  in  that 
of  his  mother,  he  stammered  over  his  story  with 
ill-repressed  sobs  and  much  mental  confusion. 

"W  —  we  met  him  out  walking.  I  m  —  mean  we 
were  out  walking.  He  was  out  riding.  He  looked 
like  a  picture  in  my  t  —  t — tales  from  Froissart.  He 
had  a  very  curious  kind  of  a  helmet— n  —  not  quite 
a  helmet,  and  a  beautiful  green  feather  —  at  least, 
n  —  not  exactly  a  feather  and  a  beautiful  red  waist- 
coat, only  n  —  not  a  real  waistcoat,  b —  but- — " 

"  Send  him  to  bed !  "  roared  the  Master  of  the 
House.     "  Don't  let  him  prevaricate  any  more  !  " 

"  No,  Rupert,  please !  I  wish  him  to  try  and  give 
a  straight  account.  Now,  Leonard,  don't  be  a  baby; 
but  go  on  and  tell  the  truth,  like  a  brave  boy." 

Leonard  desperately  proceeded,  sniffing  as  he  did 
so. 

"  He  c  —  carried  a  spear,  like  an  old  warrior.  He 
truthfully  did.  On  my  honor!  One  end  was  on  the 
tip  of  his  foot,  and  there  was  a  flag  at  the  other  end 
—  a  real  fluttering  pennon — there  truthfully  was! 
He  does  poke  with  his  spear  in  battle,  I  do  believe; 
but  he  didn't  poke  us.  He  was  b  —  b  —  beautiful  to 
b  —  b  —  be  —  hold  !  I  asked  Jemima,  '  Is  he  another 
brother,  for  you  do  have  such  very  nice  brothers?1 
and  she  said,    '  No,  he 's  — '  " 

"  Hang  Jemima !  "  said  the  Master  of  the  House. 
"  Now  listen  to  me.  You  said  your  mother  told  you. 
What  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 


WITH   BURNISHED   BRAND   AND   MUSKETOON.         1 7 

"Je  —  Je  —  Jemima  said,  'No,  he's  a'  Orderly;' 
and  asked  the  way  —  I  qu  —  quite  forget  where  to  — 
I  truthfully  do.  And  next  morning  I  asked  Mother 
what  does  Orderly  mean?  And  she  said  tidy.  So  I 
call  him  the  tidy  one.  Dear  Mother,  you  truthfully 
did  —  at  least,"  added  Leonard  chivalrously,  as  Lady 
Jane's  face  gave  no  response,  "at  least,  if  you've 
forgotten,  never  mind :   it 's  my  fault." 

But  Lady  Jane's  face  was  blank  because  she  was 
trying  not  to  laugh.  The  Master  of  the  House  did 
not  try  long.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  then  burst  into 
a  peal. 

"  Better  say  no  more  to  him,"  murmured  Lady  Jane. 
"  I  '11  see  Jemima  now,  if  he  may  stay  with  you." 

He  nodded,  and  throwing  himself  back  on  the 
couch,  held  out  his  arms  to  the  child. 

"Well,  that'll  do.  Put  these  men  out  of  your 
head,  and  let  me  see  your  drawing." 

Leonard  stretched  his  faculties,  and  perceived  that 
the  storm  was  overpast.  He  clambered  on  to  his 
father's  knee,  and  their  heads  were  soon  bent  lovingly 
together  over  the  much-smudged  sheet  of  paper,  on 
which  the  motto  from  the  chimney  piece  was  irregu- 
larly traced. 

"  You  should  -have  copied  it  from  Uncle  Rupert's 
picture.     It  is  in  plain  letters  there." 

Leonard  made  no  reply.  His  head  now  lay  back 
on  his  father's  shoulder,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  ceiling,  which  was  of  Elizabethan  date,  with  fan- 
tastic flowers  in   raised   plaster-work.     But   Leonard 


1 8  THE   LOT   IS   CAST   INTO   THE   LAP: 

did  not  see  them  at  that  moment.  His  vision  was 
really  turned  inwards.  Presently  he  said,  "  I  am  try- 
ing to  think.  Don't  interrupt  me,  Father,  if  you 
please." 

The  Master  of  the  House  smiled,  and  gazed  com- 
placently at  the  face  beside  him.  No  painting,  no 
china  in  his  possession,  was  more  beautiful.  Sud- 
denly the  boy  jumped  down  and  stood  alone,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  and  his  eyes  tightly  shut. 

"  I  am  thinking  very  hard,  Father.  Please  tell  me 
again  what  our  motto  means." 

"  '  Lcetus  sorte  mea,  —  Happy  in  my  lot.'  What  are 
you  puzzling  your  little  brains  about?  " 

"  Because  I  know  I  know  something  so  like  it,  and 
I  can't  think  what!  Yes — no!  Wait  a  minute! 
I  've  just  got  it!  Yes,  I  remember  now:  it  was  my 
Wednesday  text !  " 

He  opened  wide  shining  eyes,  and  clapped  his 
hands,  and  his  clear  voice  rang  with  the  added  note 
of  triumph,  as  he  cried,  "  'The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me 
in  a  fair  ground.     Yea,  I  have  a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

The  Master  of  the  House  held  out  his  arms  without 
speaking ;  but  when  Leonard  had  climbed  back  into 
them,  he  stroked  the  child's  hair  slowly,  and  said,  "  Is 
that  your  Wednesday  text?  " 

"  Last  Wednesday's.  I  learn  a  text  every  day. 
Jemima  sets  them.  She  says  her  grandmother  made 
her  learn  texts  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Now, 
Father  dear,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  would  do : 
and  I  want  you  to  do  it  at  once  —  this  very  minute," 


THE    DISPOSING  THEREOF   IS   OF  THE   LORD.       19 

"  That  is  generally  the  date  of  your  desires.  What 
is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  but  I 
know  what  I  want.  Now  you  and  I  are  all  alone  to 
our  very  selves,  I  want  you  to  come  to  the  organ,  and 
put  that  text  to  music  like  the  anthem  you  made  out 
of  those  texts  Mother  chose  for  you,  for  the  harvest 
festival.  I  '11  tell  you  the  words,  for  fear  you  don't 
quite  remember  them,  and  I  '11  blow  the  bellows. 
You  may  play  on  all-fours  with  both  your  feet  and 
hands;  you  may  pull  out  trumpet  handle;  you  may 
make  as  much  noise  as  ever  you  like  —  you  '11  see 
how  I  '11  blow  !" 

•  ••*••• 

Satisfied  by  the  sounds  gf  music  that  the  two  were 
happy,  Lady  Jane  was  in  no  haste  to  go  back  to  the 
library;  but  when  she  did  return,  Leonard  greeted 
her  warmly. 

He  was  pumping  at  the  bellows  handle  of  the 
chamber  organ,  before  which  sat  the  Master  of  the 
House,  not  a  ruffle  on  his  brow,  playing  with  "  all- 
fours,"  and  singing  as  he  played. 

Leonard's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  he  cried  im- 
patiently, — 

"  Mother  !  Mother  dear  !  I  've  been  wanting  you 
ever  so  long !  Father  has  set  my  text  to  music,  and 
I  want  you  to  hear  it ;  but  I  want  to  sit  by  him  and 
sing  too.     So  you  must  come  and  blow." 

"  Nonsense,  Leonard  !  Your  mother  must  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.    Jane  !   listen  to  this  !  —  In  a  fa— air 


20  THE   LOT   IS   CAST,   ETC. 

gron  —  nd.  Bit  of  pure  melody,  that,  eh?  The  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey  seems  to  stretch  before 
one's  eyes  —  " 

"  No !  Father,  that  is  unfair.  You  are  not  to  tell 
her  bits  in  the  middle.  Begin  at  the  beginning,  and 
—  Mother  dear,  will  you  blow,  and  let  me  sing?  " 

"  Certainly.  Yes,  Rupert,  please.  I  've  done  it 
before ;  and  my  back  is  n't  aching  to-day.  Do  let 
me!" 

"Yes,  do  let  her,"  said  Leonard,  conclusively;  and 
he  swung  himself  up  into  the  seat  beside  his  father 
without  more  ado. 

"  Now,  Father,  begin  !  Mother,  listen  !  And  when 
it  comes  to  '  Yea,'  and  I  pull  trumpet  handle  out,  blow 
as  hard  as  ever  you  can^  This  first  bit  —  when 
he  only  plays  —  is  very  gentle,  and  quite  easy  to 
blow." 

Deep  breathing  of  the  organ  filled  a  brief  silence, 
then  a  prelude  stole  about  the  room.  Leonard's  eyes 
devoured  his  father's  face,  and  the  Master  of  the 
House  looking  down  on  him,  with  the  double  com- 
placency of  father  and  composer,  began  to  sing : 

"  '  Trie  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  un-to  me ;  '  "  and,  his 
mouth  wide-parted  with  smiles,  Leonard  sang  also  : 
"  '  The  lot  —  the  lot  is  fallen  —  fallen  unto  me. 

"  '  In  a  fa — air  grou — nd. 

"  '  Yea  !  (Now,  Mother  dear,  blow  !  and  fancy  you 
hear  trumpets  !  ) 

"  '  Yea  !  YEA  !   I  have  a  good-ly  Her— i— tage  !  '  " 

And  after  Lady  Jane  had  ceased  to  blow,  and  the 


THE   LOT   IS   CAST,   ETC  21 

musician  to  make  music,  Leonard  still  danced  and 
sang  wildly  about  the  room. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid,  Mother?  Father  and  I  made  it 
together  out  of  my  Wednesday  text.  Uncle  Rupert, 
can  you  hear  it?  I  don't  think  you  can.  I  believe 
you  are  dead  and  deaf,  though  you  seem  to  see." 

And  standing  face  to  face  with  the  young  Cavalier, 
Leonard  sang  his  Wednesday  text  all  through : 

"  *  The  lot  is  fallen  unto  me  in  a  fair  ground ;  yea,  I 
have  a  goodly  heritage.'  " 

But  Uncle  Rupert  spoke  no  word  to  his  young 
kinsman,  though  he  still  "seemed  to  see"  through 
eyes  drowned  in  tears. 


CHAPTER    II. 

:  an  acre  of  barren  ground ;  ling,  heath,  broom,  furze,  anything." 

Tempest,  Act  i.  Scene  i. 

"  Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name." 

Scott. 


AKE  a  High- 
w  a  y  m  a  n  '  s 
Heath. 

Destroy  ev- 
ery vestige  of 
life  with  fire 
and  axe,  from 
the  pine  that 
has  longest 
been  a  land- 
mark, to  the 
smallest  beetle 
smothered  in 
smoking  moss. 
Burn  acres 
of  purple  and 
pink      heather, 

and  pare  away  the  young  bracken  that  springs  verdant 

from  its  ashes. 


CAMP   AND   COMRADES.  23 

Let  flame  consume  the  perfumed  gorse  in  all  its 
glory,  and  not  spare  the  broom,  whose  more  exquisite 
yellow  atones  for  its  lack  of  fragrance. 

In  this  common  ruin  be  every  lesser  flower  in- 
volved :  blue  beds  of  speedwell  by  the  wayfarer's 
path  —  the  daintier  milkwort,  and  rougher  red  rattle 
—  down  to  the  very  dodder  that  clasps  the  heather, 
let  them  perish,  and  the  face  of  Dame  Nature  be 
utterly  blackened  !     Then  : 

Shave  the  heath  as  bare  as  the  back  of  your  hand, 
and  if  you  have  felled  every  tree,  and  left  not  so  much 
as  a  tussock  of  grass  or  a  scarlet  toadstool  to  break 
the  force  of  the  winds ;  then  shall  the  winds  come, 
from  the  east  and  from  the  west,  from  the  north  and 
from  the  south,  and  shall  raise  on  your  shaven  heath 
clouds  of  sand  that  would  not  discredit  a  desert  in  the 
heart  of  Africa. 

By  some  such  recipe  the  ground  was  prepared  for 
that  Camp  of  Instruction  at  Asholt  which  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  at  least  one  of  its 
neighbors.  Then  a  due  portion  of  this  sandy  oasis  in 
a  wilderness  of  beauty  was  mapped  out  into  lines,  with  * 
military  precision,  and  on  these  were  built  rows  of 
little  wooden  huts,  which  were  painted  a  neat  and 
useful  black. 

The  huts  for  married  men  and  officers  were  of  vary- 
ing degrees  of  comfort  and  homeliness,  but  those  for 
single  men  were  like  toy-boxes  of  wooden  soldiers; 
it  was  only  by  doing  it  very  tidily  that  you  could  (so 
to  speak)  put  your  pretty  soldiers  away  at  night  when 


24  CAMP  AND   COMRADES. 

you  had  done  playing  with  them,  and  get  the  lid  to 
shut  down. 

But  then  tidiness  is  a  virtue  which  —  like  Patience 
—  is  its  own  reward.  And  nineteen  men  who  keep 
themselves  clean  and  their  belongings  cleaner ;  who 
have  made  their  nineteen  beds  into  easy  chairs  before 
most  people  have  got  out  of  bed  at  all ;  whose  tin 
pails  are  kept  as  bright  as  average  teaspoons  (to  the 
envy  of  housewives  and  the  shame  of  housemaids  !  )  ; 
who  establish  a  common  and  a  holiday  side  to  the  re- 
versible top  of  their  one  long  table,  and  scrupulously 
scrub  both ;  who  have  a  place  for  everything  and  a 
discipline  which  obliges  everybody  to  put  everything 
in  its  place ;  —  nineteen  men,  I  say,  with  such  habits, 
find  more  comfort  and  elbow-room  in  a  hut  than  an 
outsider  might  believe  possible,  and  hang  up  a  photo 
graph  or  two  into  the  bargain. 

But  it  may  be  at  once  conceded  to  the  credit  of 
the  camp,  that  those  who  lived  there  thought   bet- 
ter of  it  than  those  who    did   not,   and    that   those 
who  lived  there  longest  were  apt  to  like  it  best  of 
•all. 

It  was,  however,  regarded  by  different  people  from 
very  opposite  points  of  view,  in  each  of  which  was 
some  truth. 

There  were  those  to  whom  the  place  and  the  life 
were  alike  hateful. 

They  said  that,  from  a  soldier's  stand-point,  the  life 
was  one  of  exceptionally  hard  work,  and  uncertain 
stay,  with  no  small  proportion  of  the  hardships  and 


HARD    LINES.  25 

even  risks  of  active  service,  and  none  of  the  more 
glorious  chances  of  war. 

That  you  might  die  of  sunstroke  on  the  march,  or 
contract  rheumatism,  fever,  or  dysentery,  under  can- 
vas, without  drawing  Indian  pay  and  allowances;  and 
that  you  might  ruin  your  uniform  as  rapidly  as  in  a 
campaign,  and  never  hope  to  pin  a  'ibbon  over  its 
inglorious  stains. 

That  the  military  society  was  too  large  to  find 
friends  quickly  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  as  to 
your  neighbors  in  camp,  they  were  sure  to  get  march- 
ing orders  just  when  you  had  learnt  to  like  them.  And 
if  you  did  not  like  them  — !  (But  for  that  matter, 
quarrelsome  neighbors  are  much  the  same  every- 
where. And  a  boundary  road  between  two  estates 
will  furnish  as  pretty  a  feud  as  the  pump  of  a  common 
back-yard.) 

The  haters  of  the  camp  said  that  it  had  every 
characteristic  to  disqualify  it  for  a  home ;  that  it  was 
ugly  and  crowded  without  the  appliances  of  civiliza- 
tion ;  that  it  was  neither  town  nor  country,  and  had  the 
disadvantages  of  each  without  the  merits  of  either. 

That  it  was  unshaded  and  unsheltered,  that  the 
lines  were  monotonous  and  yet  confusing,  and  every 
road  and  parade-ground  more  dusty  than  another. 

That  the  huts  let  in  the  frost  in  winter  and  the  heat 
in  summer,  and  were  at  once  stuffy  and  draughty. 

That  the  low  rot)fs  were  like  a  weight  upon  your 
head,  and  that  the  torture  was  invariably  brought  to 
a  climax  on  the  hottest  of  the  dog-days,  when  they 


26  HARD    LINES. 

were  tarred  and  sanded  in  spite  of  your  teeth ;  a 
process  which  did  not  insure  their  being  water-tight 
or  snow-proof  when  the  weather  changed. 

That  the  rooms  had  no  cupboards,  but  an  unusual 
number  of  doors,  through  which  no  tall  man  could 
pass  without  stooping. 

That  only  the  publicity  and  squalor  of  the  back- 
premises  of  the  "Lines"  —  their  drying  clothes,  and 
crumbling  mud  walls,  their  coal-boxes  and  slop-pails 
—  could  exceed  the  depressing  effects  of  the  gardens 
in  front,  where  such  plants  as  were  not  uprooted  by 
the  winds  perished  of  frost  or  drought,  and  where,  if 
some  gallant  creeper  had  stood  fast  and  covered 
the  nakedness  of  your  wooden  hovel,  the  Royal 
Engineers  would  arrive  one  morning,  with  as  little  an- 
nouncement as  the  tar  and  sand  men,  and  tear  down 
the  growth  of  years  before  you  had  finished  shaving, 
for  the  purpose  of  repainting  your  outer  walls. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  those  who  had  a 
great  affection  for  Asholt,  and  affection  never  lacks 
arguments. 

Admitting  some  hardships  and  blunders,  the  defend- 
ers of  the  Camp  fell  back  successfully  upon  statistics 
for  a  witness  to  the  general  good  health. 

They  said  that  if  the  Camp  was  windy  the  breezes 
were  exquisitely  bracing,  and  the  climate  of  that 
particular  part  of  England  such  as  would  qualify  it 
for  a  health-resort  for  invalids,  w^re  it  only  situated 
in  a  comparatively  inaccessible  part  of  the  Pyrenees, 
instead  of  being  within  an  hour  or  two  of  London. 


SUAS   HABITANS   AMAT   OSTREA   VALVAS.  27 

That  this  fact  of  being  within  easy  reach  of  town 
made  the  Camp  practically  at  the  head-quarters  of 
civilization  and  refinement,  whilst  the  simple  and 
sociable  ways  of  living,  necessitated  by  hut-life  in 
common,  emancipated  its  select  society  from  rival 
extravagance  and  cumbersome  formalities. 

That  the  Camp  stood  on  the  borders  of  the  two 
counties  of  England  which  rank  highest  on  the  books 
of  estate  and  house-agents,  and  that  if  you  did  not 
think  the  country  lovely  and  the  neighborhood 
agreeable  you  must  be  hard  to  please. 

That,  as  regards  the  Royal  Engineers,  it  was  one 
of  your  privileges  to  be  hard  to  please,  since  you 
were  entitled  to  their  good  offices ;  and  if,  after  all, 
they  sometimes  failed  to  cure  your  disordered  drains 
and  smoky  chimneys,  you,  at  any  rate,  did  not  pay 
as  well  as  suffer,  which  is  the  case  in  civil  life. 

That  low  doors  to  military  quarters  might  be  re- 
garded as  a  practical  joke  on  the  part  of  authorities, 
who  demand  that  soldiers  shall  be  both  tall  and  up- 
right, but  that  man,  whether  military  or  not,  is  an 
adaptable  animal  and  can  get  used  to  anything ;  and 
indeed  it  was  only  those  officers  whose  thoughts  were 
more  active  than  their  instincts  who  invariably  crushed 
their  best  hats  before  starting  for  town. 

That  huts  (if  only  they  were  a  little  higher!)  had  a 
great  many  advantages  over  small  houses,  which  were 
best  appreciated  by  those  who  had  tried  drawing 
lodging  allowance  and  living  in  villas,  and  which  would 
be  fully  known  if  ever  the  Lines  were  rebuilt  in  brick. 


28  AUF  WIEDER   SEHN  ! 

That  on  moonlit  nights  the  airs  that  fanned  the 
silent  Camp  were  as  dry  and  wholesome  as  by  day ; 
that  the  song  of  the  distant  nightingale  could  be 
heard  there ;  and  finally,  that  from  end  to  end  of 
this  dwelling-place  of  ten  thousand  to  (on  occasion) 
twenty  thousand  men,  a  woman  might  pass  at  mid- 
night with  greater  safety  than  in  the  country  lanes  of 
a  rural  village  or  a  police-protected  thoroughfare  of 
the  metropolis. 

But,  in  truth,  the  Camp's  best  defence  in  the  hearts 
of  its  defenders  was  that  it  was  a  camp,  —  military 
life  in  epitome,  with  all  its  defects  and  all  its  charm ; 
not  the  least  of  which,  to  some  whimsical  minds,  is, 
that  it  represents,  as  no  other  phase  of  society  repre- 
sents, the  human  pilgrimage  in  brief. 

Here  be  sudden  partings,  but  frequent  reunions ; 
the  charities  and  courtesies  of  an  uncertain  life  lived 
largely  in  common ;  the  hospitality  of  passing  hosts 
to  guests  who  tarry  but  a  day. 

Here,  surely,  should  be  the  home  of  the  sage  as 
well  as  the  soldier,  where  every  hut  might  fitly  carry 
the  ancient  motto,  "  Dwell  as  if  about  to  Depart," 
where  work  bears  the  nobler  name  of  duty,  and 
where  the  living,  hastening  on  his  business  amid 
"  the  hurryings  of  this  life,"  1  must  pause  and  stand 
to  salute  the  dead  as  he  is  carried  by. 

Bare  and  dusty  are  the  Parade  Grounds,  but  they 
are  thick  with  memories.  Here  were  blessed  the 
colors  that  became  a  young  man's  shroud  that  they 

1  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


AUF   WIEDER   SEHN  !  29 

might  not  be  a  nation's  shame.  Here  march  and 
music  welcome  the  coming  and  speed  the  Darting 
regiments.  On  this  Parade  the  rising  sun  is  greeted 
with  gun-fire  and  trumpet  clarions  shriller  than  the 
cock,  and  there  he  sets  to  a  like  salute  with  tuck  of 
drum.  Here  the  young  recruit  drills,  the  warrior 
puts  on  his  medal,  the  old  pensioner  steals  back 
to  watch  them,  and  the  soldiers'  children  play  — 
sometimes  at  fighting  or  flag-wagging,1  but  oftener  at 
funerals ! 

1  "  Flag-wagging,"  a  name  among  soldiers'  children  for  "  signal, 
ling" 


CHAPTER   III. 

* 

Ut  migraturus  habita  "  ("  Dwell  as  if  about  to  Depart ").  —  Old 

House  Motto. 


HE  barrack- 
master's  wife 
was  standing 
in  the  porch 
of  her  hut, 
the  sides  of 
which  were 
4  of  the  sim- 
jj  plest  trellis- 
|work  of 
1  crossed  fir- 
poles,  thro' 
which  she 
could  watch 
the  proceed- 
ings of  the 
gardener 
without  bak- 
ing herself  in 
the  sun.  Sud- 
denly she 
snatched  up 
a  green- 
lined  white 
umbrella,  that  had  seen  service  in  India,  and  ran  out. 


A  funeral;  and  this  hath  now  his  heart.     31 

"  O'Reilly  !  what  is  that  baby  doing?  There  !  that 
white-headed  child  crossing  the  parade  with  a  basket 
in  its  little  arms  !  It 's  got  nothing  on  its  head.  Please 
go  and  take  it  to  its  mother  before  it  gets'  sunstroke." 

The  gardener  was  an  Irish  soldier  —  an  old  soldier, 
as  the  handkerchief  depending  from  his  cap,  to  pro- 
tect the  nape  of  his  neck  from  the  sun,  bore  witness. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  and  stepped  without  ceremony 
over  the  garden  paling  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the 
parade.  But  he  stepped  back  again  at  once,  and 
resumed  his  place  in  the  garden. 

"He's  Corporal  Macdonald's  child,  madam.  The 
Blind  Baby,  they  call  him.  Not  a  bit  of  harm  will  he 
get.  They're  as  hard  as  nails  the  whole  lot  of  them. 
If  I  was  to  take  him  in  now,  he  'd  be  out  before  my 
back  was  turned.  His  brothers  and  sisters  are  at  the 
school,  and  Blind  Baby  's  just  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long,  playing  at  funerals  all  the  time." 

"  Blind  !  Is  he  blind  ?  Poor  little  soul !  But  he  's 
got  a  great  round  potato-basket  in  his  arms.  Surely 
they  don't  make  that  afflicted  infant  fetch  and  carry?  " 

O'Reilly  laughed  so  heartily,  that  he  scandalized 
his  own  sense  of  propriety. 

"I  ask.your  pardon,  madam.  But  there's  no  fear 
that  Blind  Baby  '11  fetch  and  carry.  Every  man  in 
the  Lines  is  his  nurse." 

"  But  what 's  he  doing  with  that  round  hamper  as 
big  as  himself?  " 

"  It 's  just  a  make-believe  for  the  Big  Drum,  madam. 
The  Dead  March,  is  his  whole  delight.     'Twas  only 


32      A  FUNERAL;    AND  THIS  HATH  NOW  HIS  HEART. 

yesterday  I  said  to  his  father,  'Corporal,'  I  says, 
'we'll  live  to  see  Blind  Baby  a  band-master  yet,'  I 
says;  'it's  a  pure  pleasure  to  see  him  beat  out  a 
tune  with  his  closed  fist.'  " 

"Will  I  go  and  borrow  a  barrow  now,  madam?" 
added  O'Reilly,  returning  to  his  duties.  He  was 
always  willing  and  never  idle,  but  he  liked  change 
of  occupation. 

"No,  no.  Don't  go  away.  We  sha'n't  want  a 
wheelbarrow  till  we  've  finished  trenching  this  border, 
and  picking  out  the  stones.  Then  you  can  take 
them  away  and  fetch  the  new  soil." 

"You're  at  a  deal  of  pains,  madam,  and  it's  a 
poor  patch  when  all 's  done  to  it." 

"  I  can't  live  without  flowers,  O'Reilly,  and  the 
Colonel  says  I  may  do  what  I  like  with  this  bare 
strip." 

"  Ah !  Don't  touch  the  dirty  stones  with  youi 
fingers,  ma'am.  I  '11  have  the  lot  picked  in  no  time 
at  all." 

"  You  see,  O'Reilly,  you  can't  grow  flowers  in  sand 
unless  you  can  command  water,  and  the  Colonel  tells 
me  that  when  it's  hot  here  the  water  supply  runs 
short,  and  we  mayn't  water  the  garden  from  the 
pumps." 

O'Reilly  smiled  superior. 

"  The  Colonel  will  get  what  water  he  wants,  ma'am. 
Never  fear  him !  There  's  ways  and  means.  Look 
at  the  gardens  of  the  Royal  Engineers'  Lines.  In 
the  hottest  of  summer  weather  they're  as  green  as 


EXPERIENCE   KEEPS   A   DEAR   SCHOOL.  33 

Old  Ireland;  and  it's  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
Royal  Engineers  can  requisition  showers  from  the 
skies  when  they  need  them,  more  than  the  rest  of 
Her  Majesty's  forces." 

"  Perhaps  the  Royal  Engineers  do  what  I  mean  to  do 
—  take  more  pains  than  usual;  and  put  in  soil  that 
will  retain  some  moisture.  One  can't  make  poor  land 
yield  anything  without  pains,  O'Reilly,  and  this  is  like 
the.  dry  bed  of  a  stream  —  all  sand  and  pebbles." 

"  That 's  as  true  a  word  as  ever  ye  spoke,  madam, 
and  if  it  were  not  that  'twould  be  taking  a  liberty,  I  'd 
give  ye  some  advice  about  gardening  in  Camp.  It's 
not  the  first  time  I  'm  quartered  in  Asholt,  and  I 
know  the  ways  of  it." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  advice.  You  know  I  have 
never  been  stationed  here  before." 

"  Tis  an  old  soldier's  advice,  madam." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  lady,  warmly. 

O'Reilly  was  kneeling  to  his  work.  He  now  sat 
back  on  his  heels,  and  not  without  a  certain  dignity 
that  bade  defiance  to  his  surroundings  he  commenced 
his  oration. 

"Please  God  to  spare  you  and  the  Colonel,  madam, 
to  put  in  his  time  as  Barrack  Master  at  this  station, 
ye  '11  see  many  a  regiment  come  and  go,  and  be  mak- 
ing themselves  at  home  all  along.  And  anny  one  that 
knows  this  place,  and  the  nature  of  the  soil,  tear-rs 
would  overflow  his  eyes  to  see  the  regiments  come  for 
drill,  and  betake  themselves  to  gardening.  Maybe 
the  boys  have  marched  in  footsore  and  fasting,  in  the 

3 


34  EXPERIENCE   KEEPS   A   DEAR   SCHOOL. 

hottest  of  weather,  to  cold  comfort  in  empty  quarters, 
and  they  '11  not  let  many  hours  flit  over  their  heads 
before  some  of  'em  '11  get  possession  of  a  load  of 
green  turf,  and  be  laying  it  down  for  borders  around 
their  huts.  It's  the  young  ones  I'm  speaking  of; 
and  there  ye  '11  see  them,  in  the  blazing  sun,  with 
their  shirts  open,  and  not  a  thing  on  their  heads, 
squaring  and  fitting  the  turfs  for  bare  life,  watering 
them  out  of  old  pie-dishes  and  stable-buckets  and 
whatnot,  singing  and  whistling,  and  fetching  and 
carrying  between  the  pump  and  their  quarters,  just 
as  cheerful  as  so  many  birds  building  their  nests  in 
the  spring." 

"  A  very  pretty  picture,  O'Reilly.  Why  should  it 
bring  tears  to  your  eyes?  An  old  soldier  like  you 
must  know  that  one  would  never  have  a  home  in 
quarters  at  all  if  one  did  not  begin  to  make  it  at 
once." 

"  True  for  you,  madam.  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  But 
it  goes  to  your  heart  to  see  labor  thrown  away ;  and 
it 's  not  once  in  a  hundred  times  that  grass  planted 
like  that  will  get  hold  of  a  soil  like  this,  and  the  boys 
themselves  at  drill  all  along,  or  gone  out  under  can- 
vas in  Bottomless  Bog  before  the  week 's  over,  as 
likely  as  not." 

"  That  would  be  unlucky.  But  one  must  take  one's 
luck  as  it  comes.  And  you  've  not  told  me,  now, 
what  you  do  advise  for  Camp  Gardens." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  'm  coming  to,  ma'am.  See  the 
old  soldier!     What  does  he  do?     Turns  the  bucket 


BEANS   IN  THE   MUD  'LL   GROW   LIKE   WOOD.     35 

upside  down  outside  his  hut,  and  sits  on  it,  with  a  cap 
on  his  head,  and  a  handkerchief  down  his  back,  and 
some  tin  tacks,  and  a  ball  of  string:  trust  a  soldier's 
eye  to  get  the  lines  straight  —  every  one  of  them 
beginning  on  the  ground  and  going  nearly  up  to  the 
roof." 

"For  creepers,  I  suppose?  What  does  the  old 
soldier  plant?  " 

"Beans,  madam  —  scarlet  runners.  These  are  the 
things  for  Asholt.  A  few  beans  are  nothing  in  your 
baggage.  They  like  a  warm  place,  and  when  they're 
on  the  sunny  side  of  a  hut  they've  got  it,  and  no 
mistake.  They  're  growing  while  you  're  on  duty. 
The  flowers  are  the  right  soldier's  color;  and  when  it 
comes  to  the  beans,  ye  may  put  your  hand  out  of  the 
window  and  gather  them,  and  no  trouble  at  all." 

"  The  old  soldier  is  very  wise ;  but  I  think  I  must 
have  more  flowers  than  that.  So  I  plant,  and  if  they 
die  I  am  very  sorry;  and  if  they  live,  and  other 
people  have  them,  I  try  to  be  glad.  One  ought  to 
learn  to  be  unselfish,  O'Reilly,  and  think  of  one's 
successors." 

"  And  that 's  true,  madam ;  barring  that  I  never 
knew  any  one's  successor  to  have  the  same  fancies  as 
himself:  one  plants  trees  to  give  shelter,  and  the  next 
cuts  them  down  to  let  in  the  air." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  only  way  is  to  be  prepared 
for  the  worst.  The  rose  we  planted  yesterday  by  the 
porch  is  a  great  favorite  of  mine ;  but  the  Colonel 
calls  it  '  Marching  Orders.'     It  used  to  grow  over  my 


36      BRING  FLOWERS  THAT  SAD  EMBROIDERY  WEAR. 

window  in  my  old  home,  and  I  have  planted  it  by 
every  home  I  have  had  since;  but  the  Colonel  says 
whenever  it  settled  and  began  to  flower  the  regiment 
got  the  route." 

"  The  Colonel  must  name  it  again,  madam,"  said 
O'Reilly,  gallantly,  as  he  hitched  up  the  knees  of  his 
trousers,  and  returned  to  the  border.  "  It  shall  be 
'  Standing  Orders '  now,  if  soap  and  water  can  make 
it  blossom,  and  I  'm  spared  to  attend  to  it  all  the  time. 
Many  a  hundred  roses  may  you  and  the  Colonel  pluck 
from  it,  and  never  one  with  a  thorn !  " 

"Thank  you,  O'Reilly;  thank  you  very  much. 
Soapy  water  is  very  good  for  roses,  I  believe?" 

"  It  is  so,  madam.  I  put  in  a  good  deal  of  my 
time  as  officer's  servant  after  I  was  in  the  Connaught 
Rangers,  and  the  Captain  I  was  with  one  time  was  as 
fond  of  flowers  as  yourself.  There  was  a  mighty  fine 
rose-bush  by  his  quarters,  and  every  morning  I  had  to 
carry  out  his  bath  to  it.  He  used  more  soap  than 
most  gentlemen,  and  when  he  sent  me  to  the  town 
for  it  —  'It's  not  for  myself,  O'Reilly,'  he'd  say,  'so 
much  as  for  the  Rose.  Bring  large  tablets,'  he'd  say, 
'  and  the  best  scented  ye  can  get.  The  roses  '11  be 
the  sweeter  for  it.'  That  was  his  way  of  joking,  and 
never  a  smile  on  his  face.  He  was  odd  in  many  of 
his  ways,  was  the  Captain,  but  he  was  a  grand  soldier 
entirely;  a  good  officer,  and  a  good  friend  to  his 
men,  and  to  the  wives  and  children  no  less.  The 
regiment  was  in  India  when  he  died  of  cholera,  in 
twenty-four  hours,  do  what  I  would.     '  Oh,  the  cramp 


BRING  FLOWERS  THAT  SAD  EMBROIDERY  WEAR.      37 

in  my  legs,  O'Reilly ! '  he  says.  '  God  bless  ye, 
Captain,'  says  I ;  '  never  mind  your  legs ;  I  'd  manage 
the  cramp,  sir,'  I  says,  '  if  I  could  but  keep  up  your 
heart.'  '  Ye  '11  not  do  that,  O'Reilly,'  he  says,  '  for  all 
your  goodness  ;  I  lost  it  too  long  ago.'  That  was  his 
way  of  joking,  and  never  a  smile  on  his  face.  'Twas 
a  pestilential  hole  we  were  in,  and  that's  the  truth; 
and  cost  Her  Majesty  more  in  lives  than  would  have 
built  healthy  quarters  and  given  us  every  comfort; 
but  the  flowers  throve  there  if  we  did  n't,  and  the 
Captain's  grave  was  filled  till  ye  could  n't  get  the 
sight  of  him  for  roses.  He  was  a  good  officer,  and 
beloved  of  his  men ;  and  better  master  never  a  man 
had  !  " 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  O'Reilly  drew  his  sleeve 
sharply  across  his  eyes,  and  then  bent  again  to  his 
work,  which  was  why  he  failed  to  see  what  the  Bar- 
rack Master's  wife  saw,  and  did  not  for  some  moments 
discover  that  she  was  no  longer  in  the  garden.  The 
matter  was  this : 

The  Barrack  Master's  quarters  were  close  to  the 
Iron  Church,  and  the  straight  road  that  ran  past  both 
was  crossed,  just  beyond  the  church,  by  another 
straight  road,  which  finally  led  out  to  and  joined  a 
country  highway.  From  this  highway  an  open  car- 
riage and  pair  were  being  driven  into  the  camp  as  a 
soldier's  funeral  was  marching  to  church.  The  band 
frightened  the  horses,  who  were  got  past  with  some 
difficulty,  and  having  turned  the  sharp  corner,  were 
coming   rapidly   towards   the   Barrack   Master's   hut 


38  BLOOD   IS   THICKER  THAN   WATER. 


when  Blind  Baby,  excited  by  the  band,  strayed  from 
his  parade-ground,  tumbled,  basket  and  all,  into  the 
ditch  that  divided  it  from  the  road,  picked  up  himseli 
and  his  basket,  and  was  sturdily  setting  forth  across 
the  road  just  as  the  frightened  horses  came  plunging 
to  the  spot. 

The  Barrack  Master's  wife  was  not  very  young, 
and  not  very  slender.  Rapid  movements  were  not 
easy  to  her.  She  was  nervous  also,  and  could  never 
afterwards  remember  what  she  did  with  herself  in 
those  brief  moments  before  she  became  conscious 
that  the  footman  had  got  to  the  horses'  heads,  and 
that  she  herself  was  almost  under  their  feet,  with  Blind 
Baby  in  her  arms.  Blind  Baby  himself  recalled  her 
to  consciousness  by  the  ungrateful  fashion  in  which 
he  pummelled  his  deliverer  with  his  fists  and  howled 
for  his  basket,  which  had  rolled  under  the  carriage  to 
add  to  the  confusion.  Nor  was  he  to  be  pacified  till 
O'Reilly  took  him  from  her  arms. 

By  this  time  men  had  rushed  from  every  hut  and 
kitchen,  wash-place  and  shop,  and  were  swarming  to 
the  rescue,  and  through  the  whole  disturbance,  like 
minute-guns,  came  the  short  barks  of  a  black  puppy, 
which  Leonard  had  insisted  upon  taking  with  him  to 
show  to  his  aunt  despite  the  protestations  of  his 
mother:  for  it  was  Lady  Jane's  carriage,  and  this  was 
how  the  sisters  met. 

They  had  been  sitting  together  for  some  time,  so 
absorbed  by  the  strangeness  and  the  pleasure  of  theii 


BLOOD   IS  THICKER  THAN   WATER.  39 

new  relations  that  Leonard  and  his  puppy  had  slipped 
away  unobserved,  when  Lady  Jane,  who  was  near  the 
window,  called  to  her  sister-in-law:  — "  Adelaide,  tell 
me,  my  dear,  is  this  Colonel  Jones?"  She  spoke 
with  some  trepidation.  It  is  so  easy  for  those  unac- 
quainted with  uniforms  to  make  strange  blunders. 
Moreover,  the  Barrack  Master,  though  soldierly  look- 
ing, was  so,  despite  a  very  unsoldierly  defect.  He 
was  exceeding  stout,  and  as  he  approached  the 
miniature  garden-gate,  Lady  Jane  found  herself  gaz» 
ing  with  some  anxiety  to  see  if  he  could  possibly  get 
through. 

But  O'Reilly  did  not  make  an  empty  boast  when 
he  said  that  a  soldier's  eye  was  true.  The  Colonel 
came  quite  neatly  through  the  toy  entrance,  knocked 
nothing  down  in  the  porch,  bent  and  bared  his  head 
with  one  gesture  as  he  passed  under  the  drawing-room 
doorway,  and  bowing  again  to  Lady  Jane,  moved 
straight  to  the  side  of  his  wife. 

Something  in  the  action  —  a  mixture  of  dignity 
and  devotion,  with  just  a  touch  of  defiance  —  went  to 
Lady  Jane's  heart.  She  went  up  to  him  and  held  out 
both  her  hands: — "Please  shake  hands  with  me, 
Colonel  Jones.  I  am  so  very  happy  to  have  found 
a  sister !  "  In  a  moment  more  she  turned  round, 
saying: — "I  must  show  you  your  nephew.  Leon- 
ard !  "     But  Leonard  was  not  there. 

"  I  fancy  I  have  seen  him  already,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  If  he  is  a  very  beautiful  boy,  very  beautifully  dressed 
in  velvet,  he  's  with  O'Reilly,  watching  the  funeral." 


40  TOLL   FOR  THE   BRAVE  i 

Lady  Jane  looked  horrified,  and  Mrs.  Jones  looked 
much  relieved. 

"  He 's  quite  safe  if  he  's  with  O'Reilly.  But  give 
me  my  sunshade,  Henry,  please ;  I  dare  say  Lady 
Jane  would  like  to  see  the  funeral  too." 

It  is  an  Asholt  amenity  to  take  care  that  you  miss 
no  opportunity  of  seeing  a  funeral.  It  would  not 
have  occurred  to  Lady  Jane  to  wish  to  go,  but  as  her 
only  child  had  gone  she  went  willingly  to  look  for  him. 
As  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  hut  they  came 
straight  upon  it,  and  at  that  moment  the  "  Dead 
March  "  broke  forth  afresh. 

The  drum  beat  out  those  familiar  notes  which 
strike  upon  the  heart  rather  than  the  ear,  the  brass 
screamed,  the  ground  trembled  to  the  tramp  of  feet 
and  the  lumbering  of  the  gun-carriage,  and  Lady 
Jane's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears  at  the  sight  of 
the  dead  man's  accoutrements  lying  on  the  Union 
Jack  that  serves  a  soldier  for  a  pall.  As  she  dried 
them  she  saw  Leonard. 

Drawn  up  in  accurate  line  with  the  edge  of  the 
road,  O'Reilly  was  standing  to  salute ,  and  as  near  to 
the  Irish  private  as  he  could  squeeze  himself  stood 
the  boy,  his  whole  body  stretched  to  the  closest 
possible  imitation  of  his  new  and  deeply-revered 
friend,  his  left  arm  glued  to  his  side,  and  the  back  of 
his  little  right  hand  laid  against  his  brow,  gazing  at 
the  pathetic  pageant  as  it  passed  him  with  devouring 
eyes.  And  behind  them  stood  Blind  Baby,  beating 
upon  his  basket. 


TOLL   FOR  THE   BRAVE!  41 

For  the  basket  had  been  recovered,  and  Blind 
Baby's  equanimity  also ;  and  he  wandered  up  and 
down  the  parade  again  in  the  sun,  long  after  the 
soldier's  funeral  had  wailed  its  way  to  the  graveyard, 
over  the  heather-covered  hill. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


"  My  mind  is  in  the  anomalous  condition  of  hating  war,  and  loving 
its  discipline,  which  has  been  an  incalculable  contribution  to  the  sen- 
timent of  duty     .     -     .     the  devotion  of  the  common  soldier  to  his 
leader  (the  sign  for  him  of  hard  duty)  is  the  type  of  all  higher  de 
votedness,  and  is  full  of  promise  to  other  and  better  generations." 

George  Eho 

OUR  sister  is 
as  nice  as 
nice  can  be, 
Rupert ;  and  I 
like  the  Bar 
rack  Master 
very  much, 
too.  He  is 
stout!  But  he 
is  verv  active 
and  upright, 
and  his  man- 
ners to  his  wife 
are  wonderful- 
ly pretty.  Do 
you  know, 
there  is  some- 
thing to  me 
most  touching 
in  the  way 
these  two  have 
knocked 
about  the 
world  togeth- 
er, and  seem 
so  happy  with 


birth's  gude,  but  breeding's  better.     43 

so  little.  Cottagers  could  hardly  live  more  simply, 
and  yet  their  ideas,  or  at  any  rate  their  experiences, 
seem  so  much  larger  than   one's   own." 

"  My  dear  Jane  !  if  you've  taken  them  up  from  the 
romantic  point  of  view  all  is,  indeed,  accomplished. 
I  know  the  wealth  of  your  imagination,  and  the  riches 
of  its  charity.  If,  in  such  a  mood,  you  will  admit 
that  Jones  is  stout,  he  must  be  fat  indeed  !  Never 
again  upbraid  me  with  the  price  that  I  paid  for  that 
Chippendale  arm-chair.  It  will  hold  the  Barrack 
Master." 

"Rupert! — I  cannot  help  saying  it  —  it  ought  to 
have  held  him  long  ago.  It  makes  me  miserable  to 
think  that  they  have  never  been  under  our  roof." 

"  Jane  !  Be  miserable  if  you  must ;  but,  at  least,  be 
accurate.  The  Barrack  Master  was  in  India  when  I 
bought  that  paragon  of  all  Chips,  and  he  has  only 
come  home  this  year.  Nay,  my  dear !  Don't  be 
vexed.  I  give  you  my  word,  I  'm  a  good  deal  more 
ashamed  than  I  like  to  own  to  think  how  Adelaide 
has  been  treated  by  the  family  —  with  me  as  its  head. 
Did  you  make  my  apologies  to-day,  and  tell  her  that 
I  shall  ride  out  to-morrow  and  pay  my  respects  to 
her  and  Jones?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  told  her  you  were  obliged  to  go  to 
town,  and  I  would  not  delay  to  call  and  ask  if  I  could 
be  of  use  to  them.  I  begged  them  to  come  here  till 
their  quarters  are  quite  finished ;  but  they  won't. 
They  say  they  are  settled.  I  could  not  say  much, 
because  we  ought  to  have  asked  them  sooner.     He 


44       BIRTH  'S   GUDE,   BUT   BREEDING 'S   BETTER. 

is   rather  on  his  dignity  with  us,   I    think,   and    no 
wonder." 

"He's  disgustingly  on  his  dignity!  They  both 
are.  Because  the  family  resented  the  match  at  first, 
they  have  refused  every  kind  of  help  that  one  would 
have  been  glad  to  give  him  as  Adelaide's  husband,  if 
only  to  secure  their  being  in  a  decent  position. 
Neither  interest  nor  money  would  he  accept,  and 
Adelaide  has  followed  his  lead.  She  has  very  little 
of  her  own,  unfortunately;  and  she  knows  how  my 
father  left  things  as  well  as  I  do,  and  never  would 
accept  a  farthing  more  than  her  bare  rights.  I  tried 
some  dodges,  through  Quills ;  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
The  vexation  is  that  he  has  taken  this  post  of  Barrack 
Master  as  a  sort  of  pension,  which  need  never  have 
been.  I  suppose  they  have  to  make  that  son  an 
allowance.  It's  not  likely  he  lives  on  his  pay.  I 
can't  conceive  how  they  scrub  along." 

And  as  the  Master  of  the  House  threw  himself  into 
the  paragon  of  all  Chips,  he  ran  his  fingers  through 
hair,  the  length  and  disorder  of  which  would  have 
made  the  Barrack  Master  feel  positively  ill,  with  a 
gesture  of  truly  dramatic  despair. 

"  Your  sister  has  made  her  room  look  wonderfully 
pretty.  One  would  never  imagine  those  huts  could 
look  as  nice  as  they  do  inside.  But  it's  like  play- 
ins  with  a  doll's  house.  One  feels  inclined  to  ex- 
amine  everything,  and  to  be  quite  pleased  that  the 
windows  have  glass  in  them,  and  will  really  open 
and  shut." 


NON   EADEM   MIRAMUR.  45 

The   Master   of   the    House   raised    his   eyebrows 

funnily. 

"  You  did  take  rose-colored  spectacles  with  you  to 

the  Camp  !  " 

Lady  Jane  laughed. 

"I  did  not  see  the  Camp  itself  through  them. 
What  an  incomparably  dreary  place  it  is !  It  makes 
me  think  of  little  woodcuts  in  missionary  reports  — 
'Sketch  of  a  Native  Settlement'  —  rows  of  little 
black  huts  that  look,  at  a  distance,  as  if  one  must 
creep  into  them  on  all-fours ;  nobody  about,  and  an 
iron  church  on  the  hill." 

"  Most  accurately  described !  And  you  wonder 
that  I  regret  that  a  native  settlement  should  have 
been  removed  from  the  enchanting  distance  of  mis- 
sionary reports  to  become  my  permanent  neighbor." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  the  effect  it  produces  on  me 
is  to  make  me  feel  quite  ashamed  of  the  peace  and 
pleasure  of  this  dear  old  place,  the  shade  and  green- 
ery outside,  the  space  above  my  head,  and  the  lovely 
things  before  my  eyes  inside  (for  you  know,  Rupert, 
how  I  appreciate  your  decorative  tastes,  though  I 
have  so  few  myself.  I  only  scolded  about  the  Chip 
because  I  think  you  might  have  got  him  for  less)  — 
when  so  many  men  bred  to  similar  comforts,  and  who 
have  served  their  country  so  well,  with  wives  I  dare 
say  quite  as  delicate  as  I  am,  have  to  be  cooped  up 
in  those  ugly  little  kennels  in  that  dreary  place  —  " 

"  What  an  uncomfortable  thing  a  Scotch  conscience 
is  !  "  interrupted  the  Master  of  the  House.     "  By-the- 


46  NON   EADEM   MIRAMUR. 

bye,  those  religious  instincts,  which  are  also  character- 
istic of  your  race,  must  have  found  one  redeeming 
feature  in  the  Camp,  the  'iron  church  on  the  hill;  ' 
especially  as  I  imagine  that  it  is  puritanically  ugly !  " 

"There  was  a  funeral  going  into  it  as  we  drove 
into  Camp,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the  horses  were 
very  much  frightened." 

"  Richards  fidgets  those  horses ;  they  're  quiet 
enough    with    me." 

"  They  did  not  like  the  military  band." 

"  They  must  get  used  to  the  band  and  to  other  mili- 
tary nuisances.  It  is  written  in  the  stars,  as  I  too 
clearly  foresee,  that  we  shall  be  driving  in  and  out  of 
that  Camp  three  days  a-week.  I  can't  go  to  my  club 
without  meeting  men  I  was  at  school  with  who  are 
stationed  at  Asholt,  and  expect  me  to  look  them  up. 
As  to  the  women,  I  met  a  man  yesterday  who  is 
living  in  a  hut,  and  expects  a  Dowager  Countess  and 
her  two  daughters  for  the  ball.  He  has  given  up  his 
dressing-room  to  the  Dowager,  and  put  two  barrack- 
beds  into  the  coal-hole  for  the  young  ladies,  he  says. 
It 's  an  insanity !  " 

"  Adelaide  told  me  about  the  ball.  The  Camp 
seems  very  gay  just  now.  They  have  had  theatricals; 
and  there  is  to  be  a  grand  Field  Day  this  week." 

"  So  our  visitors  have  already  informed  me.  They 
expect  to  go.  Louisa  Mainwaring  is  looking  hand- 
somer than  ever,  and  I  have  always  regarded  her  as 
a  girl  with  a  mind.  I  took  her  to  see  the  peep  I 
have   cut  opposite  to  the   island,   and    I    could    not 


FIELD    DAYS.  47 

imagine  why  those  fine  eyes  of  hers  looked  so  blank. 
Presently  she  said,  '  I  suppose  you  can  see  the  Camp 
from  the  little  pine-wood?'  And  to  the  little  pine- 
wood  we  had  to  go.  Both  the  girls  have  got  stiff 
necks  with  craning  out  of  the  carriage  window  to 
catch  sight  of  the  white  tents  among  the  heather  as 
they  came  along  in  the  train." 

"  I  suppose  we  must  take  them  to  the  Field  Day ; 
but  I  am  very  nervous  about  those  horses,  Rupert." 

"  The  horses  will  be  taken  out  before  any  firing  be- 
gins. As  to  bands,  the  poor  creatures  must  learn, 
like  their  master,  to  endure  the  brazen  liveliness  of 
military  music.  It 's  no  fault  of  mine  that  our  nerves 
are  scarified  by  any  sounds  less  soothing  than  the 
crooning  of  the  wood  pigeons  among  the  pines  !  " 

No  one  looked  forward  to  the  big  Field  Day  with 
keener  interest  than  Leonard ;  and  only  a  few  privi- 
leged persons  knew  more  about  the  arrangements 
for  the  day  than  he  had  contrived  to  learn. 

O'Reilly  was  sent  over  with  a  note  from  Mrs.  Jones, 
to  decline  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  Lady  Jane's  carriage 
for  the  occasion.  She  was  not  very  well.  Leonard 
waylaid  the  messenger  (whom  he  hardly  recognized 
as  a  tidy  one !  ),  and  O'Reilly  gladly  imparted  all  that 
he  knew  about  the  Field  Day :  and  this  was  a  good 
deal.  He  had  it  from  a  friend  —  a  corporal  in  the 
Head  Quarters  Office. 

As  a  rule,  Leonard  only  enjoyed  a  limited  popu- 
larity with  his  mother's  visitors.  He  was  very  pretty 
and  very  amusing,  and  had  better  qualities  even  than 


48  OLD   SOLDIERS. 

these  ;  but  he  was  restless  and  troublesome.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  the  young  ladies  suffered  him  to 
trample  their  dresses  and  interrupt  their  conversation 
without  remonstrance.  He  knew  more  about  the 
Field  Day  than  any  one  in  the  house,  and,  standing 
imong  their  pretty  furbelows  and  fancy-work  in  stiff 
military  attitudes,  he  imparted  his  news  with  an  un- 
successful imitation  of  an  Irish  accent. 

"  O'Reilly  says  the  March  Past  '11  be  at  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  Sandy  Slopes." 

"  Louisa,  is  that  Major  O'Reilly  of  the  Rifles?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  Is  your  friend  O'Reilly  in 
the  Rifles,  Leonard?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  know  he's  an  owld  soldier  —  he 
told  me  so." 

"  Old,  Leonard ;  not  owld.  You  must  n't  talk  like 
that." 

"  I  shall  if  I  like.     He  does,  and  I  mean  to." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did,  Louisa.     He 's  always  joking." 

"No,  he  isn't.  He  didn't  joke  when  the  funeral 
went  past.  He  looked  quite  grave,  as  if  he  was  say- 
ing his  prayers,  and  stood  so." 

"  How  touching  !  " 

"  How  like  him  !  " 

"  How  graceful  and  tender-hearted  Irishmen  are  !  " 

"  I  stood  so,  too.  I  mean  to  do  as  like  him  as 
ever  I  can.     I  do  love  him  so  very  very  much !  " 

"  Dear  boy  !  " 

"  You  good,  affectionate  little  soul !  " 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  Leonard  dear." 


OLD   SOLDIERS.  49 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  'm  too  old  for  kissing.  He  's 
going  to  march  past,  and  he  's  going  to  look  out  for 
me  with  the  tail  of  his  eye,  and  I  'm  going  to  look 
out  for  him." 

"  Do,  Leonard ;  and  mind  you  tell  us  when  you  see 
him  coming." 

"  I  can't  promise.  I  might  forget.  But  perhaps 
you  can  know  him  by  the  good-conduct  stripe  on  his 
arm.  He  used  to  have  two;  but  he  lost  one  all  along 
of  St.  Patrick's  Day." 

"  That  can't  be  your  partner,  Louisa  !  " 

"  Officers  never  have  good-conduct  stripes." 

"  Leonard,  you  ought  not  to  talk  to  common  sol- 
diers. You  've  got  a  regular  Irish  brogue,  and  you  're 
learning  all  sorts  of  ugly  words.  You  '1.1  grow  up 
quite  a  vulgar  little  boy,  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  care.  I  like  being  Irish,  and 
I  shall  be  a  vulgar  little  boy  too,  if  I  choose.  But 
when  I  do  grow  up,  I  am  going  to  grow  into  an  owld, 
owld,  Owld  Soldier  !  " 

Leonard  made  this  statement  of  his  intentions  in 
his  clearest  manner.  After  which,  having  learned 
that  the  favor  of  the  fair  is  fickleness,  he  left  the 
ladies,  and  went  to  look  for  his  Black  Puppy. 

The  Master  of  the  House,  in  arranging  for  his  visit- 
ors to  go  to  the  Field  Day,  had  said  that  Leonard 
was  not  to  be  of  the  party.  He  had  no  wish  to  en- 
courage the  child's  fancy  for  soldiers  :  and  as  Leonard 
was  invariably  restless  out  driving,  and  had  a  trick  of 
kicking  people's  shins  in  his  changes  of  mood  and 

4 


50  LOVE   ME,    LOVE   MY   DOG. 


position,  he  was  a  most  uncomfortable  element  tn  a 
carriage  full  of  ladies.  But  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
he  stoutly  resisted  his  father's  decree ;  and  the  child's 
disappointment  was  so  bitter,  and  he  howled  and  wept 
himself  into  such  a  deplorable  condition,  that  the 
young  ladies  sacrificed  their  own  comfort  and  the 
crispness  of  their  new  dresses  to  his  grief,  and  peti- 
tioned the  Master  of  the  House  that  he  might  be 
allowed  to  go. 

The  Master  of  the  House  gave  in.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  yield  where  Leonard  was  concerned.  But 
the  concession  proved  only  a  prelude  to  another 
struggle.  Leonard  wanted  the  Black  Puppy  to  go 
too. 

On  this  point  the  young  ladies  presented  no  peti- 
tion. Leonard's  boots  they  had  resolved  to  endure, 
but  not  the  dog's  paws.  Lady  Jane,  ;oo,  protested 
against  the  puppy,  and  the  matter  seemed  settled ; 
but  at  the  last  moment,  when  all  but  Leon  arc  were  in 
the  carriage,  and  the  horses  chafing  to  be  off,  the 
child  made  his  appearance,  and  stood  on  the  en- 
trance-steps with  his  puppy  in  his  arms,  and  an- 
nounced, in  dignified  sorrow,  "  I  really  cannot  go  if 
my  Sweep  has  to  be  left  behind." 

With  one  consent  the  grown-up  people  turned  to 
look  at  him. 

Even  the  intoxicating  delight  that  color  gives  can 
hardly  exceed  the  satisfying  pleasure  in  which  beau- 
tiful proportions  steep  the  sense  of  sight;  and  one  is 
often  at  fault  to  find  the  law  that  has  been  so  exqui- 


iJDVE   ME,    LOVE   MY   DOG.  5 1 

sitely  fulfilled,  when  the  eye  has  no  doubt  of  its  own 
satisfaction. 

The  shallow  stone  steps,  on  the  top  of  which  Leon- 
ard stood,  and  the  old  doorway  that  framed  him,  had 
this  mysterious  grace,  and,  truth  to  say,  the  boy's 
beauty  was  a  jewel  not  unworthy  of  its  setting. 

A  holiday  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  with  collar  and 
ruffles  of  old  lace,  became  him  very  quaintly;  and  as 
he  laid  a  cheek  like  a  rose-leaf  against  the  sooty  head 
of  his  pet,  and  they  both  gazed  piteously  at  the  car 
riage,  even  Lady  Jane's  conscience  was  stifled  by 
motherly  pride.     He  was  her  only  child,  but  as  he 

had   said  of  the   Orderly,   "a  very  splendid   sort   of 

>» 
one. 

The  Master  of  the  House  stamped  his  foot  with  an 
impatience  that  was  partly  real  and  partly,  perhaps, 
affected. 

"  Well,  get  in  somehow,  if  you  mean  to.  The 
horses  can't  wait  all  day  for  you." 

No  ruby-throated  humming-bird  could  have  darted 
more  swiftly  from  one  point  to  another  than  Leonard 
from  the  old  gray  steps  into  the  carriage.  Little  boys 
can  be  very  careful  when  they  choose,  and  he  trode 
on  no  toes  and  crumpled  no  finery  in  his  flitting. 

To  those  who  know  dogs,  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  puppy  showed  an  even  superior  discretion.  It 
bore  throttling  without  a  struggle.  Instinctively  con- 
scious of  the  alternative  of  being  shut  up  in  a  stable 
for  the  day,  and  left  there  to  bark  its  heart  out,  it 
shrank  patiently  into  Leonard's  grasp,  and  betrayed 


52  THE   BEETLE   IS   A   BEAUTY 

no  sign  of  life  except  in  the  strained  and  pleading 
anxiety  which  a  puppy's  eyes  so  often  wear. 

"  Your  dog  is  a  very  good  dog,  Leonard,  I  must 
say,"  said  Louisa  Mainwaring;  "but  he 's  very  ugly. 
I  never  saw  such  legs  !  " 

Leonard  tucked  the  lank  black  legs  under  his 
velvet  and  ruffles.  "  Oh,  he 's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  He  '11  be  very  handsome  soon.     It 's  his  ugly  mouth." 

"  I  wonder  you  did  n't  insist  on  our  bringing  Uncle 
Rupert  and  his  dog  to  complete  the  party,"  said  the 
Master  of  the  House. 

The  notion  tickled  Leonard,  and  he  laughed  so 
heartily  that  the  puppy's  legs  got  loose,  and  required  to 
be  tucked  in  afresh.  Then  both  remained  quiet  for 
several  seconds,  during  which  the  puppy  looked  as 
anxious  as  ever ;  but  Leonard's  face  wore  a  smile  of 
dreamy  content  that  doubled  its  loveliness. 

But  as  the  carriage  passed  the  windows  of  the 
library  a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  and  dispersed 
his  repose. 

Gripping  his  puppy  firmly  under  his  arm,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  —  regardless  of  other  people's  —  and  wav- 
ing his  cap  and  feather  above  his  head  he  cried  aloud, 
"Good-bye,  Uncle  Rupert!  Can  you  hear  me? 
Uncle  Rupert,  I  say!     I  am  —  Icetus  —  sorte  —  mea!" 

•  •••••• 

All  the  Camp  was  astir. 

Men  and  bugles  awoke  with  the  dawn  and  the  birds, 
and  now  the  women  and  children  of  all  ranks  were  on 
the  alert.     (Nowhere  does  so  large  and  enthusiastic  a 


IN  THE   EYES   OF  ITS   MOTHER.  53 

crowd  collect  "  to  see  the  pretty  soldiers  go  by,"  as 
in  those  places  where  pretty  soldiers  live.) 

Soon  after  gun-fire  O'Reilly  made  his  way  from 
his  own  quarters  to  those  of  the  Barrack  Master, 
opened  the  back-door  by  some  process  best  known 
to  himself,  and  had  been  busy  for  half  an  hour  in 
the  drawing-room  before  his  proceedings  woke  the 
Colonel.  They  had  been  as  noiseless  as  possible; 
but  the  Colonel's  dressing-room  opened  into  the 
drawing-room,  his  bedroom  opened  into  that,  and 
all  the  doors  and  windows  were  open  to  court  the 
air. 

"Who's  there?"  said  the  Colonel  from  his  pillow. 

"Tis  O'Reilly,  Sir.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir;  but 
I  heard  that  the  Mistress  was  not  well.  She  '11  be 
apt  to  want  the  reclining-chair,  Sir;  and  'twas  dam- 
aged in  the  unpacking.  I  got  the  screws  last  night, 
but  I  was  busy  soldiering1  till  too  late;  so  I  come  in 
this  morning,  for  Smith  's  no  good  at  a  job  of  the 
kind  at  all.     He  's  a  butcher  to  his  trade." 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  much  obliged  to  you  for  thinking 
of  it,  O'Reilly." 

"'Tis  an  honor  to  oblige  her,  Sir.  I  done  it  sound 
and  secure.  'T  is  as  safe  as  a  rock ;  but  I  'd  like  to 
nail  a  bit  of  canvas  on#from  the  porch  to  the  other 
side  of  the  hut,  for  shelter,  in  case  she  'd  be  sitting 
out  to  taste  the  air  and  see  the  troops  go  by.  'Twill 
not  take  me  five  minutes,  if  the  hammering  would  n't 

1  "  Soldiering  "  —  a  barrack  term  for  the  furbishing  up  of  accou- 
trements, etc. 


54  FAIR   LAUGHS   THE   MORN, 

be  too  much  for  the  Mistress.  'T  is  a  hot  day,  Sir, 
for  certain,  till  the  guns  bring  the  rain  down." 

"  Put  it  up,  if  you  've  time." 

"  I  will,  Sir.  I  left  your  sword  and  gloves  on  the 
kitchen-table,  Sir;  and  I  told  Smith  to  water  the 
rose  before  the  sun  's  on  to  it." 

With  which  O'Reilly  adjusted  the  cushions  of  the 
invalid-chair,  and  having  nailed  up  the  bit  of  canvas 
outside,  so  as  to  form  an  impromptu  veranda,  he  ran 
back  to  his  quarters  to  put  himself  into  marching 
order  for  the  Field  Day. 

The  Field  Day  broke  into  smiles  of  sunshine  too 
early  to  be  lasting.  By  breakfast  time  the  rain  came 
down  without  waiting  for  the  guns;  but  those  most 
concerned  took  the  changes  of  weather  cheerfully, 
as  soldiers  should.  Rain  damages  uniforms,  but  it 
lays  dust;  and  the  dust  of  the  Sandy  Slopes  was 
dust  indeed ! 

After  a  pelting  shower  the  sun  broke  forth  again, 
and  from  that  time  onwards  the  weather  was  "  Queen's 
Weather,"  and  Asholt  was  at  its  best.  The  sandy 
Camp  lay  girdled  by  a  zone  of  the  verdure  of  early 
summer,  which  passed  by  miles  of  distance,  through 
exquisite  gradations  of  many  blues,  to  meet  the  soft 
threatenings  of  the  changeable  sky.  Those  lowering 
and  yet  tender  rain-clouds  which  hover  over  the 
British  Isles,  guardian  spirits  of  that  scantly  recog- 
nized blessing  —  a  temperate  climate;  Naiads  of  the 
waters  over  the  earth,  whose  caprices  betwixt  storm 
and  sunshine  fling  such  beauty  upon  a  landscape  as 


AND   SOFT  THE   ZEPHYR   BLOWS.  55 

has  no  parallel  except  in  the  common  simile  of  a  fair 
face  quivering  between  tears  and  smiles. 

Smiles  were  in  the  ascendant  as  the  regiments 
began  to  leave  their  parade-grounds,  and  the  surface 
of  the  Camp  (usually  quiet,  even  to  dulness)  sparkled 
with  movement.  Along  every  principal  road  the 
color  and  glitter  of  marching  troops  rippled  like 
streams,  and  as  the  band  of  one  regiment  died  away 
another  broke  upon  the  excited  ear. 

At  the  outlets  of  the  Camp  eager  crowds  waited 
patiently  in  the  dusty  hedges  to  greet  favorite  regi- 
ments, or  watch  for  personal  friends  amongst  the 
troops ;  and  on  the  ways  to  the  Sandy  Slopes  every 
kind  of  vehicle,  from  a  drag  to  a  donkey-cart,  and 
every  variety  of  pedestrian,  from  an  energetic  tourist 
carrying  a  field-glass  to  a  more  admirably  energetic 
mother  carrying  a  baby,  disputed  the  highway  with 
cavalry  in  brazen  breastplates,  and  horse-artillery 
whose  gallant  show  was  drowned  in  its  own  dust. 

Lady  Jane's  visitors  had  expressed  themselves  as 
anxious  not  to  miss  anything,  and  troops  were  still 
pouring  out  of  the  Camp  when  the  Master  of  the 
House  brought  his  skittish  horses  to  where  a  "  block  " 
had  just  occurred  at  the  turn  to  the  Sandy  Slopes. 

What  the  shins  and  toes  of  the  visitors  endured 
whilst  that  knot  of  troops  of  all  arms  disentangled 
itself  and  streamed  away  in  gay  and  glittering  lines, 
could  only  have  been  concealed  by  the  supreme 
powers  of  endurance  latent  in  the  weaker  sex;  for 
with    the   sight    of   every   fresh    regiment    Leonard 


56  STAND   FAST,  CRAIGELLACHIE  ! 

changed  his  plans  for  his  own  future  career,  and  with 
every  change  he  forgot  a  fresh  promise  to  keep  quiet, 
and  took  by  storm  that  corner  of  the  carriage  which 
for  the  moment  offered  the  best  point  of  view. 

Suddenly,  through  the  noise  and  dust,  and  above 
the  dying  away  of  conflicting  bands  into  the  distance, 
there  came  another  sound — a  sound  unlike  any  other 
—  the  skirling  of  the  pipes;  and  Lady  Jane  sprang 
up  and  put  her  arms  about  her  son,  and  bade  him 
watch  for  the  Highlanders,  and  if  Cousin  Alan 
looked  up  as  he  went  past  to  cry  "  Hurrah  for 
Bonnie  Scotland  !  " 

For  this  sound  and  this  sight  —  the  bagpipes  and 
the  Highlanders  —  a  sandy-faced  Scotch  lad  on  the 
tramp  to  Southampton  had  waited  for  an  hour  past, 
frowning  and  freckling  his  face  in  the  sun,  and  exas- 
perating a  naturally  dour  temper  by  reflecting  on  the 
probable  pride  and  heartlessness  of  folk  who  wore 
such  soft  complexions  and  pretty  clothes  as  the  ladies 
and  the  little  boy  in  the  carriage  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road. 

But  when  the  skirling  of  the  pipes  cleft  the  air  his 
cold  eyes  softened  as  he  caught  sight  of  Leonard's 
face,  and  the  echo  that  he  made  to  Leonard's  cheer 
was  caught  up  by  the  good-humored  crowd,  who 
gave  the  Scotch  regiment  a  willing  ovation  as  it 
swung  proudly  by.  After  which  the  carriage  moved 
on,  and  for  a  time  Leonard  sat  very  still.  He  was 
thinking  of  Cousin  Alan  and  his  comrades;  of  the 
tossing  plumes  that  shaded  their  fierce  eyes ;   of  the 


STAND   FAST,    CRAIGELLACHIE  !  57 

swing  of  kilt  and  sporran  with  their  unfettered  limbs ; 
of  the  rhythmic  tread  of  their  white  feet  and  the  flutter- 
ing ribbons  on  the  bagpipes;  and  of  Alan's  hand- 
some face  looking  out  of  his  most  becoming  bravery. 

The  result  of  his  meditations  Leonard  announced 
with  his  usual  lucidity:  — 

"  I  am  Scotch,  not  Irish,  though  O'Reilly  is  the 
nicest  man  I  ever  knew.  But  I  must  tell  him  that  I 
really  cannot  grow  up  into  an  Owld  Soldier,  because 
I  mean  to  be  a  young  Highland  officer,  and  look  at 
ladies  with  my  eyes  like  this — and  carry  my  sword 
so  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  Oh  that  a  man  might  know  the  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it 

comes  !  " 


jrHnW  ^IH'.^'T'V,  "h  . 


Julius  Ccesar- 


EARS  of  liv- 
ing amongst 
soldiers  had 
increased, 
rather  than 
diminished, 
V  ^  ,- A    Mrs.     Jones's 


relish  for  the 
sights  and 
sounds  of  mil- 
itary life. 

The  charm 
of  novelty  is 
proverbially 
great,  but 
it  is  not  so 
powerful  as 
that  peculiar 
spell    which 

drew  the  retired  tallow-chandler  back  to  "shop"  on 
melting-days,  and  which  guided  the  choice  of  the 
sexton  of  a  cemetery  who    only  took   one    holiday 


there's  trouble  in  the  air.  59 

trip  in  the  course  of  seven  years,  and  then  he  went 
to  a  cemetery  at  some  distance  to  see  how  they  man- 
aged matters  there.  And,  indeed,  poor  humanity  may 
be  very  thankful  for  the  infatuation,  since  it  goes 
far  to  make  life  pleasant  in  the  living  to  plain  folk 
who  do  not  make  a  point  of  being  discontented. 

In  obedience  to  this  law  of  nature,  the  Barrack 
Master's  wife  did  exactly  what  O'Reilly  had  expected 
her  to  do.  As  she  could  not  drive  to  the  Field  Day, 
she  strolled  out  to  see  the  troops  go  by.  Then  the 
vigor  derived  from  breakfast  and  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  air  began  to  fail,  the  day  grew  hotter,  the 
camp  looked  dreary  and  deserted,  and,  either  from 
physical  weakness  or  from  some  untold  cause,  a 
nameless  anxiety,  a  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air,  began 
to  oppress  her. 

Wandering  out  again  to  try  and  shake  it  off,  it  was 
almost  a  relief,  like  the  solving  of  a  riddle,  to  find 
Blind  Baby  sitting  upon  his  Big  Drum,  too  low- 
spirited  to  play  the  Dead  March,  and  crying  because 
all  the  bands  had  "  gone  right  away."  Mrs.  Jones 
made  friends  with  him,  and  led  him  off  to  her  hut  for 
consolation,  and  he  was  soon  as  happy  as  ever,  stand- 
ing by  the  piano  and  beating  upon  his  basket  in 
time  to  the  tunes  she  played  for  him.  But  the  day 
and  the  hut  grew  hotter,  and  her  back  ached,  and 
the  nameless  anxiety  reasserted  itself,  and  was  not 
relieved  by  Blind  Baby's  preference  for  the  Dead 
March  over  every  other  tune  with  which  she  tried 
to  beguile  him. 


60  there's  trouble  in  the  air. 

And  when  he  had  gone  back  to  his  own  Parade, 
with  a  large  piece  of  cake  and  many  assurances  that 
the  bands  would  undoubtedly  return,  and  the  day 
wore  on,  and  the  hut  became  like  an  oven  (in  the  ab- 
sence of  any  appliances  to  mitigate  the  heat),  the 
Barrack  Master's  wife  came  to  the  hasty  conclusion 
that  Asholt  was  hotter  than  India,  whatever  ther- 
mometers might  say;  and,  too  weary  to  seek  for 
breezes  outside,  or  to  find  a  restful  angle  of  the  re- 
clining-chair  inside,  she  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap 
and  abandoned  herself  to  the  most  universal  remedy 
for  most  ills  —  patience.  And  Patience  was  its  own 
reward,  for  she  fell  asleep. 

Her  last  thoughts  as  she  dozed  off  were  of  her  hus- 
band and  her  son,  wishing  that  they  were  safe  home 
again,  that  she  might  assure  herself  that  it  was  not  on 
their  account  that  there  was  trouble  in  the  air.  Then 
she  dreamed  of  being  roused  by  the  Colonel's  voice 
saying,  "  I  have  bad  news  to  tell  you  — "  and 
was  really  awakened  by  straining  in  her  dream  to 
discover  what  hindered  him  from  completing  his 
sentence. 

She  had  slept  some  time  —  it  was  now  afternoon, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  sounds  of  the  returning  bands. 
She  went  out  into  the  road  and  saw  the  Barrack  Mas- 
ter (he  was  easy  to  distinguish  at  some  distance!) 
pause  on  his  homeward  way,  and  then  she  saw  her 
son  running  to  join  his  father,  with  his  sword  under 
his  arm ;  and  they  came  on  together,  talking  as  they 
came. 


ROOSE  THE   FAIR   DAY  AT   E'EN.  6 1 

And  as  soon  as  they  got  within  earshot  she  said, 
"  Have  you  bad  news  to  tell  me?" 

The  Colonel  ran  up  and  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm. 

"  Come  indoors,  dear  Love." 

"You  are  both  well?  " 

"  Both  of  us.     Brutally  so." 

"  Quite  well,  dear  Mother." 

Her  son  was  taking  her  other  hand  into  caressing 
care ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  bad  news. 

"  Please  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  There  has  been  an  accident —  " 

"To  whom?" 

"  To  your  brother's  child  ;  that  jolly  little  chap  —  " 

"Oh,  Henry!  how?" 

"He  was  standing  up -in  the  carriage,  I  believe, 
with  a  dog  in  his  arms.  George  saw  him  when  he 
went  past  —  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  he  did  n't  fall  then.  I  fancy  some 
one  had  told  him  it  was  our  regiment.  The  dog  was 
struggling,  but  he  would  take  off  his  hat  to  us  —  " 

The  young  soldier  choked,  and  added  with  diffi- 
culty, "  I  think  I  never  saw  so  lovely  a  face.  Poor 
little  cousin !  " 

"  And  he  overbalanced  himself?  " 

"  Not  when  George  saw  him.  I  believe  it  was 
when  the  Horse  Artillery  were  going  by  at  the 
gallop.  They  say  he  got  so  much  excited,  and  the 
dog  barked,  and  they  both  fell.  Some  say  there  were 
people  moving  a  drag,  and  some  that  he  fell  under  the 


6"2  ROOSE    THE    FAIR   DAY  AT  E  EN. 

horse  of  a  patrol.  Anyhow,  I'm  afraid  he's  very 
much  hurt.  They  took  him  straight  home  in  an  am- 
bulance-wagon to  save  time.  Erskine  went  with  him. 
I  sent  off  a  telegram  for  them  for  a  swell  surgeon 
from  town,  and  Lady  Jane  promised  a  line  if  I  send 
over  this  evening.  O'Reilly  must  go  after  dinner  and 
wait  for  the  news." 

O'Reilly,  sitting  stiffly  amid  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  was  too  deeply  devoured 
by  anxiety  to  trouble  himself  as  to  whether  the  foot- 
man's survey  of  his  uniform  bespoke  more  interest 
or  contempt.  But  when  —  just  after  gun-fire  had 
sounded  from  the  distant  camp  —  Jemima  brought 
him  the  long-waited-for  note,  he  caught  the  girl's 
hand,  and  held  it  for  some  moments  before  he  was 
able  to  say,  "Just  tell  me,  miss;  is  it  good  news  or 
bad  that  I  '11  be  carrying  back  in  this  bit  of  paper?" 
And  as  Jemima  only  answered  by  sobs,  he  added, 
almost  impatiently,  "Will  he  live,  dear?  Nod  your 
head  if  ye  can  do  no  more." 

Jemima  nodded,  and  the  soldier  dropped  her  hand, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  gave  himself  one  of  those 
shakes  with  which  an  Irishman  so  often  throws  off 
care. 

"  Ah,  then,  dry  your  eyes,  darlin' ;  while  there 's 
life  there  's  hope." 

But  Jemima  sobbed  still. 

"  The  doctor  —  from  London  —  says  he  may  live  a 
good  while,  but  —  but  —  he's  to  be  a  cripple  all  his 
days !  " 


PORCELAIN   OR  BRICK  —  YET  BOTH   CLAY.        63 

"  Now  would  n't  I  rather  be  meeting  a  tiger  this 
evening  than  see  the  mistress's  face  when  she  gets 
that  news !  " 

And  O'Reilly  strode  back  to  the  camp. 

Going  along  through  a  shady  part  of  the  road  in 
the  dusk,  seeing  nothing  but  the  red  glow  of  the  pipe 
with  which  he  was  consoling  himself,  the  soldier 
stumbled  against  a  lad  sleeping  on  the  grass  by  the 
roadside.  It  was  the  tramping  Scotchman,  and  as  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  the  two  Kelts  broke  into  a  fiery  dia- 
logue that  seemed  as  if  it  could  only  come  to  blows. 

It  did  not.  It  came  to  the  good-natured  soldier's 
filling  the  wayfarer's  pipe  for  him. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye !  And  maybe  the  next 
time  a  decent  man  that's  hastening  home  on  the 
wings  of  misfortune  stumbles  against  ye,  ye  '11  not  be 
so  apt  to  take  offence." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  man ;  I  was  barely  wakened, 
and  I  took  ye  for  one  of  these  gay  red-coats  bluster- 
ing hame  after  a  bloodless  battle  on  the  Field  Day,  as 
they  ca'  it." 

"  Bad  luck  to  the  Field  Day !  A  darker  never 
dawned  ;  and  would  n't  a  bloodier  battle  have  spared 
a  child?" 

"  Your  child?     What 's  happened  to  the  bairn?  " 

"  My  child  indeed  !  And  his  mother  a  lady  of  title, 
no  less." 

"What's  got  him?" 

"  Fell  out  of  the  carriage,  and  was  trampled  into  a 
cripple  for  all  the  days  of  his  life.     He  that  had  ;et 


64       PORCELAIN   OR  BRICK  —  YET  BOTH  CLAY. 

as  fine  a  heart  as  ever  beat  on  being  a  soldier ;  and  a 
errand  one  he  'd  have  made.  '  Sure  't  is  a  nobleman 
ye  '11  be,'  says  I.  '  'T  is  an  owld  soldier  I  mean  to 
be,  O'Reilly,'  says  he.     And  —  " 

"Fond  of  the  soldiers  —  his  mother  a  leddy? 
Man !  Had  he  a  braw  new  velvet  coat  and  the  face 
of  an  angel  on  him?  " 

"  He  had  so." 

"  And  I  that  thocht  they  'd  all  this  warld  could  offer 
them! — A  cripple?     Ech,  sirs!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

°  I  will  do  it  ...  fry  I  am  weak  by  nature,  and  very  timorous, 
unless  where  a  strong  sense  of  duty  holdeth  and  supporteth  me. 
There  God  acteth,  and  not  His  creature."  —  Lady  Jane  Grey. 


EONARD  was 
to  some  extent  a 
spoiled  child. 
But  it  demands 
a  great  deal  of 
unselfish  fore- 
sight, and  of  self- 
discipline,  to  do 
more  for  a  beau- 
tiful and  loving 
pet  than  play 
with  it. 

And  if  his 
grace  and  beau- 
ty and  high  spir- 
its  had  been 
strong  tempta- 
tions to  give 
him  everything  he  desired,  and  his  own  way  above 
all,  how  much  greater  were  the  excuses  for  indulging 
every  whim  when  the  radiant  loveliness  of  health  had 
faded  to  the  wan  wistfulness  of  pain,  when  the  young 

5 


66  THE   TYRANNY   OF  THE   WEAK. 

limbs  bounded  no  more,  and  when  his  boyish  hopes 
and  hereditary  ambitions  were  cut  off  by  the  shears  of 
a  destiny  that  seemed  drearier  than  death? 

As  soon  as  the  poor  child  was  able  .to  be  moved 
his  parents  took  a  place  on  the  west  coast  of  Scot- 
land, and  carried  him  thither. 

The  neighborhood  of  Asholt  had  become  intoler- 
able to  them  for  some  time  to  come,  and  a  soft 
climate  and  sea-breezes  were  recommended  for  his 
general  health. 

Jemima's  dismissal  was  revoked.  Leonard  flatly, 
and  indeed  furiously,  refused  to  have  any  other  nurse. 
During  the  first  crisis  a  skilled  hospital  nurse  was  en- 
gaged, but  from  the  time  that  he  fully  recovered  con- 
sciousness he  would  receive  help  from  no  hands  but 
those  of  Jemima  and  Lady  Jane. 

Far  older  and  wiser  patients  than  he  become  ruth- 
less in  their  demands  upon  the  time  and  strength  of 
those  about  them ;  and  Leonard  did  not  spare  his 
willing  slaves  by  night  or  by  day.  It  increased  their 
difficulties  and  his  sufferings  that  the  poor  child  was 
absolutely  unaccustomed  to  prompt  obedience,  and 
disputed  the  Doctor's  orders  as  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  dispute  all  others. 

Lady  Jane's  health  became  very  much  broken,  but 
Jemima  was  fortunately  possessed  of  a  sturdy  body 
and  an  inactive  mind,  and  with  a  devotion  little  less 
than  maternal  she  gave  up  both  to  Leonard's  service. 

He  had  a  third  slave  of  his  bed-chamber  —  a  black 
one  —  the  Black  Puppy,  from  whom  he  had  resolutely 


THE   TYRANNY  OF   THE   WEAK.  6j 

refused  to  part,  and  whom  he  insisted  upon  having 
upon  his  bed,  to  the  Doctor's  disgust.  When  months 
passed,  and  the  Black  Puppy  became  a  Black  Dog, 
large  and  cumbersome,  another  effort  was  made  to 
induce  Leonard  to  part  with  him  at  night;  but  he 
only  complained  bitterly. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  there  cannot  be  a  bed  big 
enough  for  me  and  my  dog.  I  am  an  invalid,  and  I 
ought  to  have  what  I  want." 

So  The  Sweep  remained  as  his  bedfellow. 

The  Sweep  also  played  the  part  of  the  last  straw 
in  the  drama  of  Jemima's  life ;  for  Leonard  would 
allow  no  one  but  his  own  dear  nurse  to  wash  his  own 
dear  dog;  and  odd  hours,  in  which  Jemima  might 
have  snatched  a  little  rest  and  relaxation,  were  spent 
by  her  in  getting  the  big  dog's  still  lanky  legs  into  a 
tub,  and  keeping  him  there,  and  washing  him,  and 
drying  and  combing  him  into  fit  condition  to  spring 
back  on  to  Leonard's  coverlet  when  that  imperious 
little  invalid  called  for  him. 

It  was  a  touching  manifestation  of  the  dog's  intelli- 
gence that  he  learned  with  the  utmost  care  to  avoid 
jostling  or  hurting  the  poor  suffering  little  body  of 
his  master. 

Leonard's  fourth  slave  was  his  father. 

But  the  Master  of  the  House  had  no  faculty  for 
nursing,  and  was  by  no  means  possessed  of  the  pa- 
tience needed  to  persuade  Leonard  for  his  good.  So 
he  could  only  be  with  the  child  when  he  was  fit  to  be 
read  or  played  to,  and  later  on,  when  he  was  able  to 


68  TO   EACH  HIS   SUFFERINGS. 

be  out  of  doors.  And  at  times  he  went  away  out 
of  sight  of  his  son's  sufferings,  and  tried  to  stifle 
the  remembrance  of  a  calamity  and  disappoint- 
ment, whose  bitterness  his  own  heart  alone  fully 
knew. 

After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  years  Leonard  sud- 
denly asked  to  be  taken  home.  He  was  tired  of  the 
shore,  and  wanted  to  see  if  The  Sweep  remembered 
the  park.  He  wanted  to  see  if  Uncle  Rupert  would 
look  surprised  to  see  him  going  about  in  a  wheel- 
chair. He  wanted  to  go  to  the  Camp  again,  now  the 
doctor  said  he  might  have  drives,  and  see  if  O'Reilly 
was  alive  still,  and  his  uncle,  and  his  aunt,  and  his 
cousin.  He  wanted  father  to  play  to  him  on  their 
own  organ,  their  very  own  organ,  and  —  no,  thank 
you  !  —  he  did  not  want  any  other  music  now. 

He  hated  this  nasty  place,  and  wanted  to  go  home. 
If  he  was  going  to  live  he  wanted  to  live  there,  and 
if  he  was  going  to  die  he  wanted  to  die  there,  and 
have  his  funeral  his  own  way,  if  they  knew  a  General 
and  could  borrow  a  gun-carriage  and  a  band. 

He  did  n't  want  to  eat  or  to  drink,  or  to  go  to  sleep, 
or  to  take  his  medicine,  or  to  go  out  and  send  The 
Sweep  into  the  sea,  or  to  be  read  to  or  played  to ;  he 
wanted  to  go  home  —  home —  home  ! 

The  upshot  of  which  was,  that  before  his  parents 
had  time  to  put  into  words  the  idea  that  the  agonizing 
associations  of  Asholt  were  still  quite  unendurable, 
they  found  themselves  congratulating  each  other  on 
having  got  Leonard  safely  home  before  he  had  cried 


TO   EACH   HIS   SUFFERINGS.  69 

himself  into  convulsions  over  twenty-four  hours' 
delay. 

For  a  time,  being  at  home  seemed  to  revive  him. 
He  was  in  less  pain,  in  better  spirits,  had  more  appe- 
tite, and  was  out  a  great  deal  with  his  dog  and  his 
nurse.  But  he  fatigued  himself,  which  made  him 
fretful,  and  he  certainly  grew  more  imperious  every 
day. 

His  whim  was  to  be  wheeled  into  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  place,  inside  and  out,  and  to  show  them 
to  The  Sweep.  And  who  could  have  had  the  heart 
to  refuse  him  anything  in  the  face  of  that  dread  afflic- 
tion which  had  so  changed  him  amid  the  unchanged 
surroundings  of  his  old  home? 

Jemima  led  the  life  of  a  prisoner  on  the  tread-mill. 
When  she  was  n't  pushing  him  about  she  was  going 
errands  for  him,  fetching  and  carrying.  She  was 
"  never  off  her  feet." 

He  moved  about  a  little  now  on  crutches,  though 
he  had  not  strength  to  be  very  active  with  them,  as 
some  cripples  are.  But  they  became  ready  instru- 
ments of  his  impatience  to  thump  the  floor  with  one 
end,  and  not  infrequently  to  strike  those  who  offended 
him  with  the  other. 

His  face  was  little  less  beautiful  than  of  old,  but  it 
looked  wan  and  weird ;  and  his  beauty  was  often 
marred  by  what  is  more  destructive  of  beauty  even 
than  sickness  —  the  pinched  lines  of  peevishness  and 
ill-temper.  He  suffered  less,  but  he  looked  more 
unhappy,  was    more   difficult   to   please,   and    more 


JO  STERN   DAUGHTER   OF  THE 

impatient  with  all  efforts  to  please  him.  But  then, 
though  nothing  is  truer  than  that  patience  is  its  own 
reward,  it  has  to  be  learned  first.  And,  with  children, 
what  has  to  be  learned  must  be  taught. 

To  this  point  Lady  Jane's  meditations  brought  her 
one  day  as  she  paced  up  and  down  her  own  morning- 
room,  and  stood  before  the  window  which  looked 
down  where  the  elm-trees  made  long  shadows  on  the 
grass ;  for  the  sun  was  declining,  greatly  to  Jemima's 
relief,  who  had  been  toiling  in  Leonard's  service 
through  the  hottest  hours  of  a  summer  day. 

Lady  Jane  had  a  tender  conscience,  and  just  now 
it  was  a  very  uneasy  one.  She  was  one  of  those 
somewhat  rare  souls  who  are  by  nature  absolutely 
true.  Not  so  much  with  elaborate  avoidance  of 
lying,  or  an  aggressive  candor,  as  straight-minded, 
single-eyed,  clear-headed,  and  pure-hearted ;  a  soul 
to  which  the  truth  and  reality  of  things,  and  the 
facing  of  things,  came  as  naturally  as  the  sham  of 
them  and  the  blinking  of  them  comes  to  others. 

When  such  a  nature  has  strong  affections  it  is  no 
light  matter  if  love  and  duty  come  into  conflict. 
They  were  in  conflict  now,  and  the  mother's  heart 
was  pierced  with  a  two-edged  sword.  For  if  she 
truly  believed  what  she  believed,  her  duty  towards 
Leonard  was  not  only  that  of  a  tender  mother  to  a 
suffering  child,  but  the  duty  of  one  soul  to  another 
soul,  whose  responsibilities  no  man  might  deliver 
him  from,  nor  make  agreement  unto  God  that  he 
should  be  quit  of  them. 


VOICE   OF   GOD!   O   DUTY!  7 1 

And  if  the  disabling  of  his  body  did  not  stop  the 
developing,  one  way  or  another,  of  his  mind ;  if  to 
learn  fortitude  and  patience  under  his  pains  was  not 
only  his  highest  duty  but  his  best  chance  of  happi- 
ness; then,  if  she  failed  to  teach  him  these,  of  what 
profit  was  it  that  she  would  willingly  have  endured 
all  his  sufferings  ten  times  over  that  life  might  be  all 
sunshine  for  him? 

And  deep  down  in  her  truthful  soul  another 
thought  rankled.  No  one  but  herself  knew  how 
the  pride  of  her  heart  had  been  stirred  by  Leonard's 
love  for  soldiers,  his  brave  ambitions,  the  high  spirit 
and  heroic  instincts  which  he  inherited  from  a  long 
line  of  gallant  men  and  noble  women.  Had  her 
pride  been  a  sham?  Did  she  only  care  for  the  cour- 
age of  the  battle-field?  Was  she  willing  that  her  son 
should  be  a  coward,  because  it  was  not  the  trumpet's 
sound  that  summoned  him  to  fortitude?  She  had 
strung  her  heart  to  the  thought  that,  like  many  a 
mother  of  her  race,  she  might  live  to  gird  on  his 
sword;   should  she  fail  to  help  him  to  carry  his  cross? 

At  this  point  a  cry  came  from  below  the  window, 
and  looking  out  she  saw  Leonard,  beside  himself 
with  passion,  raining  blows  like  hail  with  his  crutch 
upon  poor  Jemima;  The  Sweep  watching  matters 
nervously  from  under  a  garden  seat. 

Leonard  had  been  irritable  all  day,  and  this  was 
the  second  serious  outbreak.  The  first  had  sent  the 
Master  of  the  House  to  town  with  a  deeply-knitted 
brow. 


72  HE  THAT  THOLES,   o'ERCOMES. 

Vexed  at,  being  thwarted  in  some  slight  matter, 
when  he  was  sitting  in  his  wheel-chair  by  the  side  of 
his  father  in  the  library,  he  had  seized  a  sheaf  of 
papers  tied  together  with  amber-colored  ribbon,  and 
had  torn  them  to  shreds.  It  was  a  fair  copy  of  the 
first  two  cantos  of  The  Soul's  Satiety,  a  poem  on  which 
the  Master  of  the  House  had  been  engaged  for  some 
years.  He  had  not  touched  it  in  Scotland,  and  was 
now  beginning  to  work  at  it  again.  He  could  not 
scold  his  cripple  child,  but  he  had  gone  up  to  London 
in  a  far  from  comfortable  mood. 

And  now  Leonard  was  banging  poor  Jemima  with 
his  crutches !  Lady  Jane  felt  that  her  conscience 
had  not  roused  her  an  hour  too  soon. 

The  Master  of  the  House  dined  in  town,  and 
Leonard  had  tea  with  his  mother  in  her  very  own 
room ;   and  The  Sweep  had  tea  there  too. 

And  when  the  old  elms  looked  black  against  the 
primrose-colored  sky,  and  it  had  been  Leonard's 
bed-time  for  half  an  hour  past,  the  three  were  to- 
gether still. 

•  •••••*• 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Jemima,  I  am  very  sorry,  and 
I  '11  never  do  so  any  more.  I  did  n't  want  to  beg  your 
pardon  before,  because  I  was  naughty,  and  because 
you  trode  on  my  Sweep's  foot.  But  I  beg"  your  par- 
don now,  because  I  am  good  —  at  least  I  am  better, 
and  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  good." 

Leonard's  voice  was  as  clear  as  ever,  and  his  man- 
ner as  direct  and  forcible.     Thus  he  contrived  to  say 


HE  THAT  THOLES,   O'ERCOMES.  73 

so  much  before  Jemima  burst  in  (she  was  putting 
him  to  bed). 

"  My  lamb  !  my  pretty  !  You  're  always  good  — " 
"Don't  tell  stories,  Jemima;  and  please  don't  con- 
tradict  me,  for  it  makes  me  cross ;  and  if  I  am  cross 
I  can't  be  good ;  and  if  I  am  not  good  all  to-morrow 
I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  downstairs  after  dinner. 
And  there  's  a  V.  C.  coming  to  dinner,  and  I  do  want 
to  see  him  more  than  I  want  anything  else  in  all  the 
world." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  What  is  there  in  the  world  to  distinguish  virtues  from  dishonor, 
or  that  can  make  anything  rewardable,  but  the  labor  and  the  danger, 
the  pain  and  the  difficulty  ? "  — Jeremy  Taylor. 


HE  V.  C.  did 

not  look  like 
a  bloodthirsty 
warrior.  He 
had  a  smooth, 
oval,  olivart 
face,  and 
dreamy  eyes. 
He  was  not 
very  big,  and 
he  was  abso- 
lutely unpre- 
tending. He 
was  a  young 
man,  and  only 
by  the  cour- 
tesy of  his 
manners  es- 
caped the  im- 
putation of  being  a  shy  young  man. 

Before  the  campaign  in  which  he  won  his  cross  he 
was  most  distinctively  known  in  society  as  having  a 


THE   COURAGE  TO   BEAR,  75 

very  beautiful  voice  and  a  very  charming-  way  of 
singing,  and  yet  as  giving  himself  no  airs  on  the  sub- 
ject of  an  accomplishment  which  makes  some  men 
almost  intolerable  by  their  fellow-men. 

He  was  a  favorite  with  ladies  on  several  accounts, 
large  and  small.  Among  the  latter  was  his  fastidious 
choice  in  the  words  of  the  songs  he  sang,  and  sang 
with  a  rare  fineness  of  enunciation. 

It  is  not  always  safe  to  believe  that  a  singer  means 
what  he  sings  ;  but  if  he  sing  very  noble  words  with 
justness  and  felicity,  the  ear  rarely  refuses  to  flatter 
itself  that  it  is  learning  some  of  the  secrets  of  a  noble 
heart. 

Upon  a  silence  that  could  be  felt  the  last  notes  of 
such  a  song  had  just  fallen.  The  V.  C.'s  lips  were 
closed,  and  those  of  the  Master  of  the  House  (who 
had  been  accompanying  him)  were  still  parted  with 
a  smile  of  approval,  when  the  wheels  of  his  chair  and 
some  little  fuss  at  the  drawing-room  door  announced 
that  Leonard  had  come  to  claim  his  mother's  promise. 
And  when  Lady  Jane  rose  and  went  to  meet  him,  the 
V.  C.  followed  her. 

"There  is  my  boy,  of  whom  I  told  you.  Leonard, 
this  is  the  gentleman  you  have  wished  so  much  to 
see." 

The  V.  C,  who  sang  so  easily,  was  not  a  ready 
speaker,  and  the  sight  of  Leonard  took  him  by  sur- 
prise, and  kept  him  silent.  He  had  been  prepared 
to  pity  and  be  good-natured  to  a  lame  child  who  had 
a  whim  to  see  him ;   but  not  for  this  vision  of  rare 


•J6  AND  THE  COURAGE  TO  DARE 

beauty,  beautifully  dressed,  with  crippled  limbs  lapped 
in  Eastern  embroideries  by  his  color-loving  father,  and 
whose  wan  face  and  wonderful  eyes  were  lambent  with 
an  intelligence  so  eager  and  so  wistful,  that  the  creat- 
ure looked  less  like  a  morsel  of  suffering  humanity 
than  like  a  soul  fretted  by  the  brief  detention  of  an 
all-but-broken  chain. 

"How  do  you  do,  V.  C?  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you.  I  wanted  to  see  you  more  than  anything  in  the 
world.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  seeing  me  because  I 
have  been  a  coward,  for  I  mean  to  be  brave  now; 
and  that  is  why  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much,  because 
you  are  such  a  very  brave  man.  The  reason  I  was 
a  coward  was  partly  with  being  so  cross  when  my 
back  hurts,  but  particularly  with  hitting  Jemima  with 
my  crutches,  for  no  one  but  a  coward  strikes  a  woman. 
She  trode  on  my  dog's  toes.  This  is  my  dog.  Please 
pat  him ;  he  would  like  to  be  patted  by  a  V.  C.  He 
is  called  The  Sweep  because  he  is  black.  He  lives 
with  me  all  along.  I  have  hit  him,  but  I  hope  I  shall 
not  be  naughty  again  any  more.  I  wanted  to  grow 
up  into  a  brave  soldier,  but  I  don't  think,  perhaps, 
that  I  ever  can  now;  but  mother  says  I  can  be  a 
brave  cripple.  I  would  rather  be  a  brave  soldier,  but 
I  'm  going  to  try  to  be  a  brave  cripple.  Jemima  says 
there  's  no  saying  what  you  can  do  till  you  try.  Please 
show  me  your  Victoria  Cross." 

"  It 's  on  my  tunic,  and  that 's  in  my  quarters  in 
Camp.     I  'm  so  sorry." 

"So  am  I.     I  knew  you  lived  in  Camp.     I  like  the 


ARE  REALLY  ONE  AND  THE  SAME.      JJ 

Camp,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  your  hut. 
Do  you  know  my  uncle,  Colonel  Jones?  Do  you 
know  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Jones?  And  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Jones?  Do  you  know  a  very  nice  Irishman,  with 
one  good-conduct  stripe,  called  O'Reilly?  Do  you 
know  my  cousin  Alan  in  the  Highlanders?  But  I 
believe  he  has  gone  away.  I  have  so  many  things  1 
want  to  ask  you,  and  oh  !  —  those  ladies  are  coming 
after  us !  They  want  to  take  you  away.  Look  at 
that  ugly  old  thing  with  a  hook-nose  and  an  eye-glass, 
and  a  lace  shawl  and  a  green  dress;  she's  just  like 
the  Poll  Parrot  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  But  she  's 
looking  at  you.  Mother  !  Mother  dear !  Don't  let 
them  take  him  away.  You  did  promise  me,  you 
know  you  did,  that  if  I  was  good  all  to-day  I  should 
talk  to  the  V.  C.  I  can't  talk  to  him  if  I  can't  have 
him  all  to  myself.  Do  let  us  go  into  the  library,  and 
be  all  to  ourselves.  Do  keep  those  women  away, 
particularly  the  Poll  Parrot.  Oh,  I  hope  I  sha'n't  be 
naughty  !  I  do  feel  so  impatient !  I  was  good,  you 
know  I  was.  Why  does  n't  James  come  and  show 
my  friend  into  the  library,  and  carry  me  out  of  my 
chair?" 

"  Let  me  carry  you,  little  friend,  and  we  '11  run 
away  together,  and  the  company  will  say,  '  There 
goes  a  V.  C.  running  away  from  a  Poll  Parrot  in  a 
lace  shawl !  '  " 

"  Ha !  ha !  You  are  nice  and  funny.  But  can 
you  carry  me?  Take  off  this  thing!  Did  you  ever 
carry  anybody  that  had  been  hurt?  " 


78  COURAGE   TO   BEAR   AND   DARE. 

"Yes,  several  people  —  much  bigger  than  you." 

"Men?" 

"  Men." 

"  Men  hurt  like  me,  or  wounded  in  battle?" 

"Wounded  in  battle." 

"  Poor  things  !     Did  they  die  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them." 

"  I  shall  die  pretty  soon,  I  believe.  I  meant 
to  die  young,  but  more  grown-up  than  this,  and 
in  battle.  About  your  age,  I  think.  How  old  are 
you?" 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-five  in  October." 

"  That's  rather  old.  I  meant  about  Uncle  Rupert's 
age.  He  died  in  battle.  He  was  seventeen.  You 
carry  very  comfortably.  Now  we  're  safe  !  Put  me 
on  the  yellow  sofa,  please.  I  want  all  the  cushions, 
because  of  my  back.  It 's  because  of  my  back,  you 
know,  that  I  can't  grow  up  into  a  soldier.  I  don't 
think  I  possibly  can.  Soldiers  do  have  to  have  such 
very  straight  backs,  and  Jemima  thinks  mine  will  never 
be  straight  again  '  on  this  side  the  grave.'  So  I  've  got 
to  try  and  be  brave  as  I  am  ;  and  that 's  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you.  Do  you  mind  my  talking  rather  more 
than  you  ?  I  have  so  very  much  to  say,  and  I  've 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  because  of  its  being  long 
past  my  bed-time,  and  a  good  lot  of  that  has  gone." 

ty  Please  talk,  and  let  me  listen." 

"  Thank  you.  Pat  The  Sweep  again,  please.  He 
thinks  we  're  neglecting  him.  That 's  why  he  gets  up 
and  knocks  you  with  his  head." 


'T  IS   GOOD   FOR   MEN  TO  LOVE  79 

"  Poor  Sweep  !     Good  old  dog  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  Now  should  you  think  that  if  I  am 
very  good,  and  not  cross  about  a  lot  of  pain  in  my 
back  and  my  head  —  really  a  good  lot  —  that  that 
would  count  up  to  be  as  brave  as  having  one  wound 
if  I'd  been  a  soldier?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Mother  says  it  would,  and  I  think  it  might.  Not 
a  very  big  wound,  of  course,  but  a  poke  with  a  spear, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  It  is  very  bad  sometimes, 
particularly  when  it  keeps  you  awake  at  night." 

"  My  little  friend,  that  would  count  for  lying  out  all 
night  wounded  on  the  field  when  the  battle  's  over. 
Soldiers  are  not  always  fighting." 

"  Did  you  ever  lie  out  for  a  night  on  a  battle- 
field?" 

"  Yes,  once." 

"  Did  the  night  seem  very  long?  " 

"  Very  long ;   and  we  were  very  thirsty." 

"  So  am  I  sometimes,  but  I  have  barley-water  and 
lemons  by  my  bed,  and  jelly,  and  lots  of  things. 
You  'd  no  barley-water,  had  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Nothing?" 

"  Nothing  till  the  rain  fell,  then  we  sucked  our 
clothes." 

"  It  would  take  a  lot  of  my  bad  nights  to  count  up 
to  that !  But  I  think  when  I  'm  ill  in  bed  I  might 
count  that  like  being  a  soldier  in  hospital?" 

"Of  .course." 


80         THEIR   PRESENT   PAINS,   UPON   EXAMPLE: 

"I  thought  —  no  matter  how  good  I  got  to  be  — 
nothing  could  ever  count  up  to  be  as  brave  as  a  real 
battle,  leading  your  men  on  and  fighting  for  your 
country,  though  you  know  you  may  be  killed  any 
minute.  But  Mother  says,  if  I  could  try  very  hard, 
and  think  of  poor  Jemima  as  well  as  myself,  and  keep 
brave  in  spite  of  feeling  miserable,  that  then  (particu- 
larly as  I  sha'n't  be  very  long  before  I  do  die)  it  would 
be  as  good  as  if  I  'd  lived  to  be  as  old  as  Uncle  Rupert, 
and  fought  bravely  when  the  battle  was  against  me, 
and  cheered  on  my  men,  though  I  knew  I  could 
never  come  out  of  it  alive.  Do  you  think  it  could 
count  up  to  that?  Do  you?  Oh,  do  answer  me,  and 
don't  stroke  my  head  !  I  get  so  impatient.  You  've 
been  in  battles  —  do  you?" 

"I  do,  I  do." 

"  You're  a  V.  C,  and  you  ought  to  know.  .  I  sup- 
pose nothing  —  not  even  if  I  could  be  good  always, 
from  this  minute  right  away  till  I  die  —  nothing  could 
ever  count  up  to  the  courage  of  a  V.  C?" 

"  GOD  knows  it  could,  a  thousand  times  over!  " 

"  Where  are  you  going?  Please  don't  go.  Look 
at  me.  They  're  not  going  to  chop  the  Queen's  head 
off,  are  they?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  !    What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"Why,  because —  Look  at  me  again.  Ah  !  you've 
winked  it  away,  but  your  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  and 
the  only  other  brave  man  I  ever  heard  of  crying  was 
Uncle  Rupert,  and  that  was  because  he  knew  they 
were  going  to  chop  the  poor  King's  head  off.", 


SO   IS   THE   SPIRIT   EASED.  8 1 

"  That  was  enough  to  make  anybody  cry." 

"  I  know  it  was.  But  do  you  know  now,  when  I  'm 
wheeling  about  in  my  chair  and  playing  with  him, 
and  he  looks  at  me  wherever  I  go ;  sometimes  for  a 
bit  I  forget  about  the  King,  and  I  fancy  he  is  sorry 
for  me.  Sorry,  I  mean,  that  I  can't  jump  about,  and 
creep  under  the  table.  Under  the  table  was  the  only 
place  where  I  could  get  out  of  the  sight  of  his  eyes. 
Oh,  dear  !     There  's  Jemima." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  be  good?  " 

"  I  know  I  am.  And  I  'm  going  to  do  lessons 
again.  I  did  a  little  French  this  morning  —  a  story. 
Mother  did  most  of  it;  but  I  know  what  the  French 
officer  called  the  poor  old  French  soldier  when  he 
went  to  see  him  in  a  hospital." 

"What?" 

"  Mon  brave.  That  means  '  my  brave  fellow.'  A 
nice  name,  was  n't  it?  " 

"  Very  nice.     Here  's  Jemima." 

"I'm  coming,  Jemima.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
naughty ;  but  you  may  go  back  to  the  chair,  for  this 
officer  will  carry  me.  He  carries  so  comfortably. 
Come  along,  my  Sweep.  Thank  you  so  much.  You 
have  put  me  in  beautifully.  Kiss  me,  please. 
Good  night,  V.  C." 

"  Good  night,  mou  brave." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


"  'I  am  a  man  of  no  strength  at  all  of  body,  nor  yet  of  mind ;  but 
would,  if  I  could,  though  I  can  but  crawl,  spend  my  life  in  the  pil- 
grims' way.  When  I  came  at  the  gate  that  is  at  the  head  of  the  way, 
the  lord  of  that  place  did  entertain  me  freely,  .  .  .  gave  me  such 
things  that  were  necessary  for  my  journey,  and  bid  me  hope  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  Other  brunts  I  also  look  for ;  but  this  I  have  resolved  on, 
to  wit,  to  run  when  I  can,  to  go  when  I  cannot  run,  and  to  creep  when 
I  cannot  go.  As  to  the  main,  I  thank  Him  that  loves  me,  I  am  fixed ; 
my  way  is  before  me,  my  mind  is  beyond  the  river  that  has  no  bridge, 

though  I  am  as  you  see.' 

"  And  behold  —  Mr.  Ready-to- 
halt  came  by  with  his  crutches  in 
his  hand,  and  he  was  also  going  on 
Pilgrimage." 

Bunyaii's  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

ND  if  we  tie  it  with  the 
amber-colored  ribbon, 
then  every  time  I  have  it 
out  to  put  in  a  new  Poor 
Thing,  I  shall  remember 
how  very  naughty  I  was, 
and  how  I  spoilt  your 
poetry." 

"  Then  we  '11  certainly 
tie  it  with  something  else," 
i  said  the  Master  of  the 
House,  and  he  jerked 
away  the  ribbon  with  a 
gesture  as  decisive  as  his 
words.  "  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.     If  /  forget  it,  you.  need  n't  remember  it !  " 


THE  BOOK   OF   POOR  THINGS.  83 

"  Oh,  but,  indeed,  I  ought  to  remember  it ;  and  I  do 
think  I  better  had — to  remind  myself  never,  never  to 
be  so  naughty  again  !  " 

"  Your  mother's  own  son  !  "  muttered  the  Master  ot 
the  House;  and  he  added  aloud:  "Well,  I  forbid  you 
to  remember  *t — so  there!  It'll  be  naughty  if  you 
do.  Here  's  some  red  ribbon.  That  should  please 
you,  as  you  're  so  fond  of  soldiers." 

Leonard  and  his  father  were  seated  side  by  side  at 
a  table  in  the  library.     The  dog  lay  at  their  feet. 

They  were  very  busy;  the  Master  of  the  House 
working  under  Leonard's  direction,  who,  issuing  his 
orders  from  his  wheel-chair,  was  so  full  of  anxiety  and 
importance,  that  when  Lady  Jane  opened  the  library- 
door  he  knitted  his  brow  and  put  up  one  thin  little 
hand,  in  a  comically  old-fashioned  manner,  to  dep- 
recate interruption. 

"Don't  make  any  disturbance,  Mother  dear,  if  you 
please.     Father  and  I  are  very  much  engaged." 

"Don't  you  think,  Len,  it  would  be  kind  to  let 
poor  Mother  see  what  we  are  doing,  and  tell  her 
about  it?  " 

Leonard  pondered  an  instant. 

"Well  — I  don't  mind." 

Then,  as  his  mother's  arm  came  round  him,  he 
added,  impetuously: 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to.  You  can  show,  Father 
dear,  and  Til  do  all  the  explaining." 

The  Master  of  the  House  displayed  some  sheets  of 
paper,  tied  with  ribbon,  which    already  contained  a 


84  THE  BOOK   OF   POOR  THINGS. 

good  deal  of  his  handiwork,  including  a  finely-illumi- 
nated capital  L  on  the  title-page. 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  Book  of  Poor  Things, 
Mother  dear.  We're  doing  it  in  bits  first;  then  it 
will  be  bound.  It's  a  collection  —  a  collection  of 
Poor  Things  who  've  been  hurt,  like  me ;  or  blind, 
like  the  organ-tuner;  or  had  their  heads  —  no,  not 
their  heads,  they  could  n't  go  on  doing  things  after 
that  —  had  their  legs  or  their  arms  chopped  off  in 
battle,  and  are  very  good  and  brave  about  it,  and 
manage  very,  very  nearly  as  well  as  people  who  have 
got  nothing  the  matter  with  them.  Father  does  n't 
think  Poor  Things  is  a  good  name.  He  wanted  to 
call  it  Masters  of  Fate,  because  of  some  poetry. 
What  was  it,  Father?" 

" '  Man  is  man  and  Master  of  his  Fate,'  "  quoted 
the  Master  of  the  House. 

"  Yes,  that 's  it.  But  I  don't  understand  it  so  well 
as  Poor  Things.  They  are  Poor  Things,  you  know, 
and  of  course  we  shall  only  put  in  brave  Poor 
Things :  not  cowardly  Poor  Things.  It  was  all  my 
idea,  only  Father  is  doing  the  ruling,  and  printing, 
and  illuminating  for  me.  I  thought  of  it  when  the 
Organ-tuner  was  here." 

"  The  Organ-tuner?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  the  organ,  and  I  made  James  carry 
me  in,  and  put  me  in  the  arm-chair  close  to  the  organ. 
And  the  tuner  was  tuning,  and  he  looked  round,  and 
James  said,  '  It 's  the  young  gentleman,'  and  the 
Tuner  said,  '  Good  morning,  Sir,'  and  I  said,  '  Good 


SWEET  ARE  THE   USES    OF  ADVERSITY.  85 

morning,  Tuner;  go  on  tuning,  please,  for  I  want  to 
see  you  do  it.'  And  he  went  on;  and  he  dropped 
a  tin  thing,  like  a  big  extinguisher,  on  to  the  floor; 
and  he  got  down  to  look  for  it,  and  he  felt  about  in 
such  a  funny  way  that  I  burst  out  laughing.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  be  rude ;  I  could  n't  help  it.  And  I  said, 
'  Can't  you  see  it?  It 's  just  under  the  table.'  And 
he  said,  '  I  can't  see  anything,  Sir;  I  'm  stone  blind.' 
And  he  said,  perhaps  I  would  be  kind  enough  to 
give  it  him.  And  I  said  I  was  very  sorry,  but  I 
had  n't  got  my  crutches,  and  so  I  could  n't  get  out  of 
my  chair  without  some  one  to  help  me.  And  he 
was  so  awfully  sorry  for  me,  you  can't  think !  He 
said  he  did  n't  know  I  was  more  afflicted  than  he  was ; 
but  I  was  awfully  sorry  for  him,  for  I  've  tried  shutting 
my  eyes ;  and  you  can  bear  it  just  a  minute,  but  then 
you  must  open  them  to  see  again.  And  I  said,  '  How 
can  you  do  anything  when  you  see  nothing  but  black- 
ness all  along?  '  And  he  says  he  can  do  well  enough 
as  long  as  he  's  spared  the  use  of  his  limbs  to  earn 
his  own  livelihood.  And  I  said,  '  Are  there  any  more 
blind  men,  do  you  think,  that  earn  their  own  liveli- 
hood? I  wish  I  could  earn  mine!  '  And  he  said, 
'  There  are  a  good  many  blind  tuners,  Sir.'  And  I 
said,  'Go  on  tuning,  please:  I  like  to  hear  you  do  it.' 
And  he  went  on,  and  I  did  like  him  so  much.  Do 
you  know  the  blind  tuner,  Mother  dear?  And  don't 
you  like  him  very  much?  I  think  he  is  just  what 
you  think  very  good,  and  I  think  V.C.  would  think  it 
nearly  as  brave  as  a  battle  to  be  afflicted  and  go  on 


86  SWEET   ARE  THE   USES    OF  ADVERSITY. 

earning  your  own  livelihood  when  you  can  see  nothing 
but  blackness  all  along.     Poor  man  !  " 

"  I  do  think  it  very  good  of  him,  my  darling,  and 
very  brave." 

"  I  knew  you  would.  And  then  I  thought  perhaps 
there  are  lots  of  brave  afflicted  people  —  poor  things  ! 
and  perhaps  there  never  was  anybody  but  me  who 
was  n't.  And  I  wished  I  knew  their  names,  and  I 
asked  the  Tuner  his  name,  and  he  told  me.  And 
then  I  thought  of  my  book,  for  a  good  idea  —  a  col- 
lection, you  know.  And  I  thought  perhaps,  by 
degrees,  I  might  collect  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
Poor  Things,  all  brave.  And  so  I  am  making  Father 
rule  it  like  his  Diary,- and  we  've  got  the  Tuner's  name 
down  for  the  First  of  January ;  and  if  you  can  think 
of  anybody  else  you  must  tell  me,  and  if  I  think 
they're  afflicted  enough  and  brave  enough,  I '11  put 
them  in.  But  I  shall  have  to  be  rather  particu- 
lar, for  we  don't  want  to  fill  up  too  fast.  Now, 
Father,  I  've  done  the  explaining,  so  you  can  show 
your  part.  Look,  Mother,  has  n't  he  ruled  it 
well?  There's  only  one  tiny  mess,  and  it  was  The 
Sweep  shaking  the  table  with  getting  up  to  be 
patted." 

"  He  has  ruled  it  beautifully.  But  what  a  hand- 
some L !  " 

"Oh,  I  forget!  Wait  a  minute,  Father;  the  ex- 
plaining is  n't  quite  finished.  What  do  you  think 
that  L  stands  for,  Mother  dear?" 

"  For  Leonard,  I  suppose." 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE.  87 

"  No,  no  !  What  fun  !  You  're  quite  wrong. 
Guess  again." 

"  Is  it  not  the  Tuner's  name?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  He  's  in  the  first  of  January — I  told  you 
so.  And  in  plain  printing.  Father  really  could  n't 
illuminate  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  poor  things  !  " 

"  Of  course  he  could  n't.  It  was  silly  of  me  to 
think  so." 

"  Do  you  give  it  up?  " 

"  I  must.     I  cannot  guess." 

"It's  the  beginning  of  ' Lcetus  sorte  mea.%  Ah, 
you  know  now !  You  ought  to  have  guessed  without 
my  telling  you.  Do  you  remember?  I  remember, 
and  I  mean  to  remember.  I  told  Jemima  that  very 
night.  I  said,  '  It  means  Happy  with  my  fate,  and 
in  our  family  we  have  to  be  happy  with  it,  whatever 
sort  of  a  one  it  is.'  For  you  told  me  so.  And  I  told 
the  Tuner,  and  he  liked  hearing  about  it  very  much. 
And  then  he  went  on  tuning,  and  he  smiled  so  when 
he  was  listening  to  the  notes,  I  thought  he  looked 
very  happy ;  so  I  asked  him,  and  he  said,  Yes,  he  was 
always  happy  when  he  was  meddling  with  a  musical 
instrument.  But  I  thought,  most  likely  all  brave 
poor  things  are  happy  with  their  fate,  even  if  they 
can't  tune ;  and  I  asked  Father,  and  he  said,  '  Yes,' 
and  so  we  are  putting  it  into  my  collection  —  partly 
for  that,  and  partly  when  the  coat-of-arms  is  done, 
to  show  that  the  book  belongs  to  me.  Now,  Father 
dear,  the  explaining  is  really  quite  finished  this  time, 
and  you  may  do  all  the  rest  of  the  show-off  yourself !  " 


CHAPTER   IX. 


1  St.  George  !   a  stirring  life  they  lead, 
That  have  such  neighbors  near." 

Marmion. 

H,  Jemi  ma! 
Jemima!  I 
know  you  are 
very  kind,  and 
I  do  mean  not 
to  be  impa- 
t  i  e  n  t;  but 
either  you  're 
telling  stories 
or  you're 
talking  non- 
sense, and 
that 's  a  fact. 
How  can  you 
say  that  that 
blue  stuff  is 
a  beautiful 
match,  and 
will  wash  the  exact  color,  and  that  you  're  sure  I 
shall  like  it  when  it 's  made  up  with  a  cord  and  tas- 
sels, when  it 's  not  the  blue  I  want,  and  when  you 
know  the  men  in  hospital  have  n't  any  tassels  to  their 


A   BLUE   DRESSING-GOWN.  89 

dressing-gowns  at  all !  You  're  as  bad  as  that  horrid 
shopman  who  made  me  so  angry.  If  I  had  not  been 
obliged  to  be  good,  I  should  have  liked  to  hit  him 
hard  with  my  crutch,  when  he  kept  on  saying  he 
knew  I  should  prefer  a  shawl-pattern  lined  with  crim- 
son, if  I  would  let  him  send  one.  Oh,  here  comes 
Father!  Now,  that's  right;  he'll  know.  Father 
dear,  is  this  blue  pattern  the  same  color  as  that?  " 

"  Certainly  not.    But  what 's  the  matter,  my  child  ? " 

"  It 's  about  my  dressing-gown ;  and  I  do  get  so 
tired  about  it,  because  people  will  talk  nonsense,  and 
won't  speak  the  truth,  and  won't  believe  I  know  what 
I  want  myself.  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  want.  Do 
you  know  the  Hospital  Lines?  " 

"In  the  Camp?     Yes." 

"  And  you  've  seen  all  the  invalids  walking  about 
in  blue  dressing-gowns  and  little  red  ties?  " 

"  Yes.     Charming  bits  of  color." 

"  Hurrah  !  that 's  just  it !  Now,  Father  dear,  if 
you  wanted  a  dressing-gown  exactly  like  that  — 
would  you   have  one  made  of  this  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  knew  it !  Crude,  coarse,  staring  —  please 
don't  wave  it  in  front  of  my  eyes,  unless  you  want  to 
make  me  feel  like  a  bull  with  a  red  rag  before  him !  " 

"  Oh,  Father  dear,  you  are  sensible !  (Jemima, 
throw  this  pattern  away,  please!)  But  you'd  have 
felt  far  worse  if  you  'd  seen  the  shawl-pattern  lined 
with  crimson.  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  have  been  a 
bull  that  was  n't  obliged  to  be  latus  for  half  a  minute, 
to  give  that  shopman  just  one  toss !     But  I  believe 


90  A   BLUE   DRESSING-GOWN. 

the  best  way  to  do  will  be  as  O'Reilly  says  —  gi ' 
Uncle  Henry  to  buy  me  a  real  one  out  of  store,  anc 
have  it  made  smaller  for  me.  And  I  should  like  it 
'  out  of  store.'  " 

From  this  conversation  it  will  be  seen  that  Leonard's 
military  bias  knew  no  change.  Had  it  been  less 
strong  it  could  only  have  served  to  intensify  the  pain 
of  the  heartbreaking  associations  which  anything 
connected  with  the  troops  now  naturally  raised  in  his 
parents'  minds.  But  it  was  a  sore  subject  that  fairly 
healed  itself. 

The  Camp  had  proved  a  more  cruel  neighbor  than 
the  Master  of  the  House  had  ever  imagined  in  his 
forebodings ;  but  it  also  proved  a  friend.  For  if  the 
high,  ambitious  spirit,  the  ardent  imagination,  the 
vigorous  will,  which  fired  the  boy's  fancy  for  soldiers 
and  soldier-life,  had  thus  led  to  his  calamity,  they 
found  in  that  sympathy  with  men  of  hardihood  and 
lives  of  discipline,  not  only  an  interest  that  never 
failed  and  that  lifted  the  sufferer  out  of  himself,  but  a 
constant  incentive  to  those  virtues  of  courage  and 
patience  for  which  he  struggled  with  touching  con- 
scientiousness. 

Then,  without  disparagement  to  the  earnestness  of 
his  efforts  to  be  good,  it  will  be  well  believed  that  his 
parents  did  their  best  to  make  goodness  easy  to  him. 
His  vigorous  individuality  still  swayed  the  plans  of 
the  household,  and  these  came  to  be  regulated  by 
those  of  the  Camp  to  a  degree  which  half  annoyed 
and  half  amused  its  Master. 


MILITARY   MANOEUVRES.  9 1 

The  AsJiolt  Gazette  was  delivered  as  regularly  as 
the  Times ;  but  on  special  occasions,  the  arrange- 
ments for  which  were  only  known  the  night  before, 
O'Reilly,  or  some  other  Orderly,  might  be  seen  wend- 
ing his  way  up  the  Elm  Avenue  by  breakfast  time, 
"  with  Colonel  Jones'  compliments,  and  the  Orders  of 
the  Day  for  the  young  gentleman."  And  so  many 
were  the  military  displays  at  which  Leonard  contrived 
to  be  present,  that  the  associations  of  pleasure  and 
alleviation  with  Parades  and  Manoeuvres  came  at  last 
almost  to  blot  out  the  associations  of  pain  connected 
with  that  fatal  Field  Day. 

He  drove  about  a  great  deal,  either  among  air- 
cushions  in  the  big  carriage  or  in  a  sort  of  perambu- 
lator of  his  own,  which  was  all  too  easily  pushed  by 
any  one,  and  by  the  side  of  which  The  Sweep  walked 
slowly  and  contentedly,  stopping  when  Leonard 
stopped,  wagging  his.  tail  when  Leonard  spoke,  and 
keeping  sympathetic  step  to  the  invalid's  pace  with 
four  sinewy  black  legs,  which  were  young  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  have  ranged  for  miles  over  the 
heather  hills  and  never  felt  fatigue.  A  true  Dog 
Friend ! 

What  the  Master  of  the  House  pleasantly  called 
"Our  Military  Mania,"  seemed  to  have  reached  its 
climax  during  certain  July  manoeuvres  of  the  regi- 
ments stationed  at  Asholt,  and  of  additional  troops 
who  lay  out  under  canvas  in  the  surrounding  country. 

Into  this  mimic  campaign  Leonard  threw  himself 
heart   and   soul.      His   camp    friends    furnished    him 


92  MILITARY   MANCEUVRES. 

with  early  information  of  the  plans  for  each  day,  so 
far  as  the  generals  of  the  respective  forces  allowed 
them  to  get  wind,  and  with  an  energy  that  defied  his 
disabilities  he  drove  about  after  "  the  armies,"  and 
then  scrambled  on  his  crutches  to  points  of  vantage 
where  the  carriage  could  not  go. 

And  the  Master  of  the  House  went  with  him. 

The  house  itself  seemed  soldier-bewitched.  Order- 
lies were  as  plentiful  as  rooks  among  the  elm-trees. 
The  staff  clattered  in  and  out,  and  had  luncheon  at 
unusual  hours,  and  strewed  the  cedar-wood  hall  with 
swords  and  cocked  hats,  and  made  low  bows  over 
Lady  Jane's  hand,  and  rode  away  among  the  trees. 

These  were  weeks  of  pleasure  and  enthusiasm  for 
Leonard,  and  of  not  less  delight  for  The  Sweep  ;  but 
they  were  followed  by  an  illness. 

That  Leonard  bore  his  sufferings  better  helped  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  they  undoubtedly  increased; 
and  he  over-fatigued  himself  and  got  a  chill,  and  had 
to  go  to  bed,  and  took  The  Sweep  to  bed  with  him. 

And  it  was  when  he  could  play  at  no  "  soldier- 
game,"  except  that  of  "  being  in  hospital,"  that  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  blue  dressing-gown  of 
regulation  color  and  pattern,  and  met  with  the  diffi- 
culties aforesaid  in  carrying  out  his  whim. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form." 

King  John,  Act  iil- 


ONG  years  after 
they  were  written, 
a  bundle  of  letters 
lay  in  the  drawer 
of  a  cabinet  in 
Lady  Jane's  morn- 
ing-room, carefully 
kept,  each  in  its 
own  envelope,  and 
every  e  nvelope 
stamped  with  the 
post-mark  of  Ash- 
olt  Camp. 

They  were  in 
Leonard's  hand- 
writing. A  childish 
hand,  though  good 
for  his  age,  but 
round  and  clear  as 
his  own  speech. 
After  much  coaxing  and  considering,  and  after 
consulting  with  the  doctors,  Leonard   had  been   ah 


94  LIFE   IS   MADE   UP   OF   LITTLE  THINGS. 

lowed  to  visit  the  Barrack  Master  and  his  wife.  After 
his  illness  he  was  taken  to  the  sea-side,  which  he 
liked  so  little  that  he  was  bribed  to  stay  there  by  the 
promise  that,  if  the  Doctor  would  allow  it,  he  should, 
on  his  return,  have  the  desire  of  his  heart,  and  be 
permitted  to  live  for  a  time  "  in  Camp,"  and  sleep  in 
a  hut. 

The  Doctor  gave  leave.  Small  quarters  would 
neither  mar  nor  mend  an  injured  sfine ;  and  if  he 
felt  the  lack  of  space  and  luxuries  to  which  he  was 
accustomed,  he  would  then  be  content  to  return 
home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  hut  only  boasted  one  spare 
bed-chamber  for  visitors,  and  when  Leonard  and  his 
dog  were  in  it  there  was  not  much  elbow-room.  A 
sort  of  cupboard  was  appropriated  for  the  use  of  Je- 
mima, and  Lady  Jane  drove  constantly  into  Camp  to 
see  her  son.  Meanwhile  he  proved  a  very  good  cor- 
respondent, as  his  letters  will  show  for  themselves. 

LETTER  I. 

"  Barrack  Master's  Hut, 
"  T/ie  Camp,  Asholt. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Mother,  — 

"  I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  and  Father  also.  I 
am  very  happy,  and  so  is  The  Sweep.  He  tried  sleeping  on 
my  bed  last  night,  but  there  was  not  room,  though  I  gave 
him  as  much  as  ever  I  could.  So  he  slept  on  the  floor.  It 
is  a  camp  bed,  and  folds  up,  if  you  want  it  to.  We  have 
nothing  like  it.     It  belonged  to  a  real  General.     The  General 


LIFE   IS   MADE   UP   OF   LITTLE   THINGS-  95 

is  dead.  Uncle  Henry  bought  it  at  his  sale.  You  always 
have  a  sale  if  you  die,  and  your  brother-officers  buy  your 
things  to  pay  your  debts.  Sometimes  you  get  them  very 
cheap.     I  mean  the  things. 

"  The  drawers  fold  up,  too.  I  mean  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  so  does  the  wash-hand-stand.  It  goes  into  the  corner, 
and  takes  up  very  little  room.  There  could  n't  be  a  bigger 
one,  or  the  door  would  not  open — the  one  that  leads  into 
the  kitchen.  The  other  door  leads  into  a  passage.  I  like 
having  the  kitchen  next  me.  You  can  hear  everything. 
You  can  hear  O'Reilly  come  in  the  morning,  and  I  call  to 
him  to  open  my  door,  and  he  says,  '  Yes,  sir,'  and  opens  it, 
and  lets  The  Sweep  out  for  a  run,  and  takes  my  boots.  And 
you  can  hear  the  tap  of  the  boiler  running  with  your  hot 
water  before  she  brings  it,  and  you  can  smell  the  bacon 
frying  for  breakfast. 

"Aunt  Adelaide  was  afraid  I  should  not  like  being  woke 
Mp  so  early,  but  I  do.  I  waked  a  good  many  times.  First 
with  the  gun.  It's  like  a  very  short  thunder,  and  shakes  you. 
And  then  the  bugles  play.  Father  would  like  them  !  And 
then  right  away  in  the  distance  —  trumpets.  And  the  air 
comes  in  so  fresh  at  the  window.  And  you  pull  up  the 
clothes,  if  they  've  fallen  off  you,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
Mine  had  all  fallen  off,  except  the  sheet,  and  The  Sweep  was 
lying  on  them.  Was  n't  it  clever  of  him  to  have  found  them 
in  the  dark?  If  I  can't  keep  them  on,  I'm  going  to  have 
campaigning  blankets ;  they  are  sewed  up  like  a  bag,  and 
you  get  into  them. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  found  on  my  co\  irlet  when  I  went 
to  bed?  A  real,  proper,  blue  dressing-gown,  and  a  crimson 
tie  !  It  came  out  of  store,  and  Aunt  Adelaide  made  it 
smaller  herself.     Wasn't  it  kind  of  her? 


96  CHURCH   PARADE. 

"I  have  got  it  on  now.  Presently  I  am  going  to  dress 
properly,  and  O'Reilly  is  going  to  wheel  me  down  to  the 
stores.  It  will  be  great  fun.  My  cough  has  been  pretty  bad, 
but  it 's  no  worse  than  it  was  at  home. 

"  There 's  a  soldier  come  for  the  letters,  and  they  are 
obliged  to  be  ready. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  RS.  —  Uncle  Henry  says  his  father  was  very  old-fash- 
ioned, and  he  always  liked  him  to  put  •  Your  dutiful  son,'  so 
I  put  it  to  you. 

*'  All  these  crosses  mean  kisses,  Jemima  told  me." 


LETTER  II. 

"...  I  went  to  church  yesterday,  though  it  was  only 
Tuesday.  I  need  not  have  gone  unless  I  liked,  but  I  liked. 
There  is  service  every  evening  in  the  Iron  Church,  and  Aunt 
Adelaide  goes,  and  so  do  I,  and  sometimes  Uncle  Henry. 
There  are  not  very  many  people  go,  but  they  behave  very 
well,  what  there  are.  You  can't  tell  what  the  officers  belong 
to  in  the  afternoon,  because  they  are  in  plain  clothes ;  but 
Aunt  Adelaide  thinks  they  were  Royal  Engineers,  except  one 
Commissariat  one,  and  an  A.  D.  C. ,  and  the  Colonel  of  a 
regiment  that  marched  in  last  week.  You  can't  tell  what  the 
ladies  belong  to  unless  you  know  them. 

"  You  can  always  tell  the  men.  Some  were  Barrack  Ser- 
geants, and  some  were  Sappers,  and  there  were  two  Gunners, 
and  an  Army  Hospital  Corps,  and  a  Cavalry  Corporal  who 
came  all  the  way  from  the  barracks,  and  sat  near  the  door, 
and  said  very  long  prayers  to  himself  at  the  end.     And  there 


CHURCH   PARADE.  97 

were  some  schoolmasters,  and  a  man  with  gray  hair  and  no 
uniform,  who  mends  the  roofs  and  teaches  in  the  Sunday 
School,  and  I  forget  the  rest.  Most  of  the  choir  are  Sappers 
and  Commissariat  men,  and  the  boys  are  soldiers'  sons.  The 
Sappers  and  Commissariat  belong  to  our  Brigade. 

"  There  is  no  Sexton  to  our  Church.  He  's  a  Church 
Orderly.  He  has  put  me  a  kind  of  a  back  in  the  corner  of 
one  of  the  Officers'  Seats,  to  make  me  comfortable  in  church, 
and  a  very  high  footstool.  I  mean  to  go  every  day,  and  as 
often  as  I  can  on  Sundays,  without  getting  too  much  tired. 

"  You  can  go  very  often  on  Sunday  mornings  if  you  want 
to.  They  begin  at  eight  o'clock,  and  go  on  till  luncheon. 
There 's  a  fresh  band,  and  a  fresh  chaplain,  and  a  fresh 
sermon,  and  a  fresh  congregation  every  time.  Those  are 
Parade  Services.  The  others  are  Voluntary  Services,  and  I 
thought  that  meant  for  the  Volunteers  ;  but  O'Reilly  laughed, 
and  said,  '  No,  it  only  means  that  there  's  no  occasion  to  go 
to  them  at  all' — he  means  unless  you  like.  But  then  I  do 
like.  There's  no  sermon  on  week  days.  Uncle  Henry  is 
very  glad,  and  so  am  I.  I  think  it  might  make  my  back 
ache. 

"  I  am  afraid,  dear  Mother,  that  you  won't  be  able  to 
understand  all  I  write  to  you  from  the  Camp ;  but  if  you 
don't,  you  must  ask  me  and  I  '11  explain. 

"  When  I  say  our  quarters,  remember  I  mean  our  hut ; 
and  when  I  say  rations  it  means  bread  and  meat,  and  I  'm 
not  quite  sure  if  it  means  coals  and  candles  as  well.  But  I 
think  I'll  make  you  a  Dictionary  if  I  can  get  a  ruled  book 
from  the  Canteen.  It  would  make  this  letter  too  much  to  go 
for  a  penny  if  I  put  all  the  words  in  I  know.  Cousin  George 
tells  me  them  when  he  comes  in  after  mess.  He  told  me  the 
Camp  name  for  Iron  Church  is  Tin  Tabernacle ;  but  Aunt 

7 


98  CHURCH   PARADE. 


Adelaide  says  it 's  not,  and  I  'm  not  to  call  it  so,  so  I  don't 
But  that 's  what  he  says. 

"  I  like  Cousin  George  very  much.  I  like  his  uniform. 
He  is  very  thin,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Uncle  Henry 
is  very  stout,  particularly  round  the  waist.  Last  night 
George  came  in  after  mess,  and  two  other  officers  out  of  his 
regiment  came  too.  And  then  another  officer  came  in. 
And  they  chaffed  Uncle  Henry,  and  Uncle  Henry  does  n't 
mind.  And  the  other  officer  said,  '  Three  times  round  a 
Subaltern  —  once  round  a  Barrack  Master.'  And  so  they  got 
Uncle  Henry's  sword-belt  out  of  his  dressing-room,  and 
George  and  his  friends  stood  back  to  back,  and  held  up  their 
jackets  out  of  the  way,  and  the  other  officer  put  the  belt  right 
round  them,  all  three,  and  told  them  not  to  laugh.  And 
Aunt  Adelaide  said,  'Oh!'  and  'you'll  hurt  them.'  And 
he  said,  '  Not  a  bit  of  it.'  And  he  buckled  it.  So  that 
shows.     It  was  great  fun. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  Son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  The  other  officer  is  an  Irish  officer  —  at  least,  I 
think  so,  but  I  can't  be  quite  sure,  because  he  won't  speak 
the  truth.  I  said,  '  You  talk  rather  like  O'Reilly ;  are  you 
an  Irish  soldier?'  And  he  said,  '  I'd  the  misfortune  to  be 
quartered  for  six  months  in  the  County  Cork,  and  it  was  the 
ruin  of  my  French  accent.'  So  I  said,  '  Are  you  a  French- 
man? '  and  they  all  laughed,  so  I  don't  know. 

"P.S.  No.  2. —  My  back  has  been  very  bad,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  says  I  have  been  very  good.  This  is  not  meant  for 
swagger,  but  to  let  you  know. 

("  Swagger  means  boasting.  If  you  're  a  soldier,  swagger 
is  the  next  worst  thing  to  running  away.) 


WHEN   GREEK   MEETS   GREEK,  99 

"  P.S.  No.  3.  —  I  know  another  officer  now.  I  like  him. 
He  is  a  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G.  I  would  let  you  guess  that  if  you 
could  ever  find  it  out,  but  you  couldn't.  It  means  Deputy- 
Assistant-Quarter-Master-General.  He  is  not  so  grand  as 
you  would  think ;  a  plain  General  is  really  grander.  Uncle 
Henry  says  so,  and  he  knows." 

LETTER  III. 

"...  I  have  seen  V.  C.  I  have  seen  him  twice.  I 
have  seen  his  cross.  The  first  time  was  at  the  Sports.  Aunt 
Adelaide  drove  me  there  in  the  pony  carriage.  We  stopped 
at  the  Enclosure.  The  Enclosure  is  a  rope,  with  a  man 
taking  tickets.  The  Sports  are  inside ;  so  is  the  tent,  with 
tea ;  so  are  the  ladies,  in  awfully  pretty  dresses,  and  the 
officers  walking  round  them. 

"There  's  great  fun  outside,  at  least,  I  should  think  so. 
There  's  a  crowd  of  people,  and  booths,  and  a  skeleton  man. 
I  saw  his  picture.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him,  but  Aunt 
Adelaide  didn't  want  to,  so  I  tried  to  be  Iculus  without. 

"  When  we  got  to  the  Enclosure  there  was  a  gentleman 
taking  his  ticket,  and  when  he  turned  round  he  was  V.  C. 
Wasn't  it  funny?  So  he  came  back  and  said,  '  Why,  here  's 
my  little  friend  ! '  And  he  said,  '  You  must  let  me  carry 
you.'  And  so  he  did,  and  put  me  among  the  ladies.  But 
the  ladies  got  him  a  good  deal.  He  went  and  talked  to  lots 
of  them,  but  I  tried  to  be  Icetus  without  him  ;  and  then 
Cousin  George  came,  and  lots  of  others,  and  then  the  V.  C. 
came  back  and  showed  me  things  about  the  Sports. 

"  Sports  are  very  hard  work  :  they  make  you  so  hot  and 
tired  ;  but  they  are  very  nice  to  watch.  The  races  were 
great  fun,  particularly  when  they  fell  In  the  water,  and  the 


IOO  THEN   COMES   THE  TUG-OF-WAR. 

men  in  sacks  who  hop,  and  the  blindfolded  men  with  wheel- 
barrows. Oh,  they  were  so  funny  !  They  kept  wheeling 
into  each  other,  all  except  one,  and  he  went  wheeling  and 
wheeling  right  away  up  the  field,  all  by  himself  and  all 
wrong  !     I  did  laugh. 

"  But  what  I  liked  best  were  the  tent-pegging  men,  and 
most  best  of  all,  the  Tug-of-War. 

"  The  Irish  officer  did  tent-pegging.  He  has  the  dearest 
pony  you  ever  saw.  He  is  so  fond  of  it,  and  it  is  so  fond  of 
him.  He  talks  to  it  in  Irish,  and  it  understands  him.  He 
cut  off  the  Turk's  head,  —  not  a  real  Turk,  a  sham  Turk,  and 
not  a  whole  one,  only  the  head  stuck  on  a  pole. 

"  The  Tug  of- War  was  splendid  !  Two  sets  of  men  pulling 
at  a  rope  to  see  which  is  strongest.  They  did  pull !  They 
pulled  so  hard,  both  of  them,  with  all  their  might  and  main, 
that  we  thought  it  must  be  a  drawn  battle.  But  at  last  one 
set  pulled  the  other  over,  and  then  there  was  such  a  noise 
that  my  head  ached  dreadfully,  and  the  Irish  officer  carried 
me  into  the  tent  and  gave  me  some  tea.  And  then  we  went 
home. 

"The  next  time  I  saw  V.  C.  was  on  Sunday  at  Parade  Ser- 
vice. He  is  on  the  Staff,  and  wears  a  cocked  hat.  He  came 
in  with  the  General  and  the  A.  D.  C. ,  who  was  at  church  on 
Tuesday,  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him. 

"  After  church,  everybody  went  about  saying  '  Good  morn- 
ing,' and  '  How  hot  it  was  in  church  !  '  and  V.  C.  helped  me 
with  my  crutches,  and  showed  me  his  cross.  And  the  Gen- 
eral came  up  and  spoke  to  me,  and  I  saw  his  medals,  and  he 
asked  how  you  were,  and  I  said,  '  Quite  well,  thank  you.' 
And  then  he  talked  to  a  lady  with  some  little  boys  dressed 
like  sailors.  She  said  how  hot  it  was  in  church,  and  he  said, 
'  I  thought  the  roof  was   coming  off  with  that  last  hymn.' 


WHEN   GREEK   MEETS   GREEK,   ETC.  IOI 

And  she  said,  '  My  little  boys  call  it  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  ; 
they  are  very  fond  of  it.'  And  he  said,  'The  men  seem  very 
fond  of  it.'  And  he  turned  round  to  an  officer  I  didn't 
know,  and  said,  '  They  ran  away  from  you  that  last  verse  but 
one.'  And  the  officer  said,  '  Yes,  sir,  they  always  do ;  so  I 
stop  the  organ  and  let  them  have  it  their  own  way.' 

"  I  asked  Aunt  Adelaide,  '  Does  that  officer  play  the 
organ?'  And  she  said,  'Yes,  and  he  trains  the  choir. 
He's  coming  in  to  supper.'  So  he  came.  If  the  officers 
stay  sermon  on  Sunday  evenings,  they  are  late  for  mess.  So 
the  Chaplain  stops  after  Prayers,  and  anybody  that  likes  to  go 
out  before  sermon  can.  If  they  stay  sermon,  they  go  to 
supper  with  some  of  the  married  officers  instead  of  dining 
at  mess. 

"  So  he  came.  I  liked  him  awfully.  He  plays  like 
Father,  only  I  think  he  can  play  more  difficult  things. 

"  He  says,  '  Tug-of-War  Hymn  '  is  the  very  good  name 
for  that  hymn,  because  the  men  are  so  fond  of  it  they  all  sing, 
and  the  ones  at  the  bottom  of  the  church  '  drag  over '  the 
choir  and  the  organ. 

"  He  said,  '  I  've  talked  till  I  'm  black  in  the  face,  and  all 
to  no  purpose.  It  would  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.'  So  I 
said,  '  Are  you  a  saint  ? '  And  he  laughed  and  said,  '  No, 
I  'm  afraid  not ;  I'm  only  a  kapellmeister.'  So  I  call  him 
'  Kapellmeister.'     I  do  like  him. 

"  I  do  like  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn.  It  begins, '  The  Son  of 
God  goes  forth  to  war.'  That 's  the  one.  But  we  have  it  to 
a  tune  of  our  own,  on  Saints'  Days.  The  verse  the  men  tug 
with  is,  '  A  noble  army,  men  and  boys.'  I  think  they  like  it, 
because  it 's  about  the  army  ;  and  so  do  I. 

"  I  am,  your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 


102  A   SOLDIER   SAINT. 

"  P.S.  —  I  call  the  ones  with  cocked  hats  and  feathers, 
'  Cockatoos.'  There  was  another  Cockatoo  who  walked 
away  with  the  General.  Not  very  big.  About  the  bigness  of 
the  stuffed  General  in  that  Pawnbroker's  window ;  and  I  do 
think  he  had  quite  as  many  medals.  I  wanted  to  see  them. 
I  wish  I  had.  He  looked  at  me.  He  had  a  very  gentle 
face  ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  it.     Was  I  a  coward  ? 

"You  remember  what  these  crosses  are,  don't  you?  I 
told  you." 

LETTER   IV. 

"  This  is  a  very  short  letter.  It 's  only  to  ask  you  to 
send  my  book  of  Poor  Things  by  the  Orderly  who  takes 
this,  unless  you  -are  quite  sure  you  are  coming  to  see  me 
to-day. 

"  A  lot  of  officers  are  collecting  for  me,  and  there  's  one 
in  the  Engineers  can  print  very  well,  so  he  '11  put  them  in. 

"  A  Colonel  with  only  one  arm  dined  here  yesterday. 
You  can't  think  how  well  he  manages,  using  first  his  knife 
and  then  his  fork,  and  talking  so  politely  all  the  time.  He 
has  all  kinds  of  dodges,  so  as  not  to  give  trouble  and  do 
everything  for  himself.     I  mean  to  put  him  in. 

"  I  wrote  to  Cousin  Alan,  and  asked  him  to  collect  for  me. 
I  like  writing  letters,  and  I  do  like  getting  them.  Uncle 
Henry  says  he  hates  a  lot  of  posts  in  the  day.  I  hate  posts 
when  there  's  nothing  for  me.     I  like  all  the  rest. 

"  Cousin  Alan  wrote  back  by  return.  He  says  he  can 
only  think  of  the  old  chap,  whose  legs  were  cut  off  in  battle  : 

'  And  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
He  fought  upon  his  stumps  I' 


A   SOLDIER   SAINT.  IO3 

It  was  very  brave,  if  it 's  true.     Do  you  think  it  is  ?     He 
did  not  tell  me  his  name. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard. 

"  P.S.  —  I  am  Icetus  sorte  mea,  and  so  is  The  Sweep." 


LETTER   V. 

"  This  letter  is  not  about  a  Poor  Thing.  It 's  about  a 
saint  —  a  soldier  saint- — which  I  and  the  Chaplain  think 
nearly  the  best  kind.  His  name  was  Martin,  he  got  to  be  a 
Bishop  in  the  end,  but  when  he  first  enlisted  he  was  only  a 
catechumen.  Do  you  know  what  a  catechumen  is,  dear 
Mother?  Perhaps  if  you  're  not  quite  so  high-church  as  the 
engineer  I  told  you  of,  who  prints  so  beautifully,  you  may  not 
know.  It  means  when  you  've  been  born  a  heathen,  and  are 
going  to  be  a  Christian,  only  you  've  not  yet  been  baptized. 
The  engineer  has  given  me  a  picture  of  him,  St.  Martin  I 
mean,  and  now  he  has  printed  underneath  it,  in  beautiful  thick 
black  letters  that  you  can  hardly  read  if  you  don't  know 
what  they  are,  and  the  very  particular  words  in  red,  •  Martin 
—  yet  but  a  Catechumen  ! '  He  can  illuminate  too,  though 
not  quite  so  well  as  Father,  he  is  very  high-church,  and  I  'm 
high-church  too,  and  so  is  our  Chaplain,  but  he  is  broad  as 
well.  The  engineer  thinks  he  's  rather  too  broad,  but  Uncle 
Henry  and  Aunt  Adelaide  think  he  's  quite  perfect,  and  so 
dQ  I,  and  so  does  everybody  else.  He  comes  in  sometimes, 
but  not  very  often  because  he  's  so  busy.  He  came  the  other 
night  because  I  wanted  to  confess.  What  I  wanted  to  con- 
fess was  that  I  had  laughed  in  church.  He  is  a  very  big 
man,  and  he  has  a  very  big  surplice,  with  a  great  lot  of  gathers 


104  MARTIN  —  YET   BUT   A   CATECHUMEN! 


behind,  which  makes  my  engineer  very  angry,  because  it 's 
the  wrong  shape,  and  he  preaches  splendidly,  the  Chap- 
lain I  mean,  straight  out  of  his  head,  and  when  all  the  sol- 
diers are  listening  he  swings  his  arms  about,  and  the  surplice 
gets  in  his  way,  and  he  catches  hold  of  it,  and  oh  !  Mother 
dear,  I  must  tell  you  what  it  reminded  me  of.  When  I  was 
very  little,  and  Father  used  to  tie  a  knot  in  his  big  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  put  his  first  finger  into  it  to  make  a  head 
that  nodded,  and  wind  the  rest  round  his  hand,  and  stick  out 
his  thumb  and  another  finger  for  arms,  and  do  the  '  Yea- 
verily-man '  to  amuse  you  and  me.  It  was  last  Sunday,  and 
a  most  splendid  sermon,  but  his  stole  got  round  under  his 
ear,  and  his  sleeves  did  look  just  like  the  Yea-verily-man, 
and  I  tried  not  to  look,  and  then  I  caught  the  Irish  officer's 
eye  and  he  twinkled,  and  then  I  laughed,  because  I  remem- 
bered his  telling  Aunt  Adelaide  '  That 's  the  grandest  old 
Padre  that  ever  got  up  into  a  pulpit,  but  did  ye  ever  see  a 
man  get  so  mixed  up  with  his  clothes  ? '  I  was  very  sorry 
when  I  laughed,  so  I  settled  I  would  confess,  for  my  engineer 
thinks  you  ought  always  to  confess,  so  when  our  Chaplain 
came  in  after  dinner  on  Monday,  I  confessed,  but  he  only 
laughed,  till  he  broke  down  Aunt  Adelaide's  black  and  gold 
chair.  He  is  too  big  for  it,  really.  Aunt  Adelaide  never 
lets  Uncle  Henry  sit  on  it.  So  he  was  very  sorry,  and  Aunt 
Adelaide  begged  him  not  to  mind,  and  then  in  came  my 
engineer  in  war-paint  (if  you  look  out  war-paint  in  the  Can- 
teen Book  I  gave  you,  you  '11  see  what  it  means) .  He  was 
in  war-paint  because  he  was  Orderly  Officer  for  the  evening, 
and  he  'd  got  his  sword  under  one  arm,  and  the  picture 
under  the  other,  and  his  short  cloak  on  to  keep  it  dry,  be- 
cause it  was  raining.  He  made  the  frame  himself;  he  can 
make  Oxford  frames  quite  well,  and  he  's  going  to  teach  me 


MARTIN  —  YET   BUT  A   CATECHUMEN!  105 

how  to.     Then  I  said,  '  Who  is  it  ?  '   so  he  told  me,  and  now 
I  'm  going  to  tell  you,  in  case  you  don't  know.     Well,  St. 
Martin  was  born  in  Hungary,  in  the  year  316.     His  father 
and  mother  were  heathens,  but  when  he  was  about  my  age 
he  made  up  his  mind  he  would  be  a  Christian.     His  father 
and  mother  were  so  afraid  of  his  turning  into  a  monk,  that  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough  they  enlisted  him  in  the  army, 
hoping  that  would  cure  him  of  wanting  to  be  a  Christian,  but 
it  did  n't  —  Martin  wanted  to  be  a  Christian  just  as  much  as 
ever ;  still  he  got  interested  with  his  work  and  his  comrades, 
and  he  dawdled  on  only  a  Catechumen,  and  did  n't  make  full 
profession  and  get  baptized.     One  winter  his  corps  was  quar- 
tered at  Amiens,  and  on  a  very  bitter  night,  near  the  gates, 
he  saw  a  half-naked  beggar  shivering  with  the  cold.     (I  asked 
my  engineer,  '  Was  he  Orderly  Officer  for  the  evening? '  but 
he  said,  '  More  likely  ofi  patrol  duty,  with  some  of  his  com- 
rades.'    However,  he  says  he  won't  be  sure,  for  Martin  was 
Tribune,  which  is  very  nearly  a  Colonel,  two  years  afterwards, 
he  knows.)     When  Martin  saw  the  Beggar  at  the  gate,  he 
pulled  out  his  big  military  cloak,  and  drew  his  sword,  and 
cut  it  in  half;  and  wrapped  half  of  it  round  the  poor  Beggar 
to  keep  him  warm.     I  know  you  '11  think  him  very  kind,  but 
wait  a  bit,  that 's  not  all.     Next  night  when  Martin  the  sol- 
dier was  asleep  he  had  a  vision.     Did  you  ever  have  a  vision  ? 
I  wish  I  could  !     This  was  Martin's  vision.     He  saw  Christ 
cur  Lord  in  Heaven,  sitting  among  the  shining  hosts,  and 
wearing  over  one  shoulder  half  a  military  cloak,  and  as  Mar- 
tin saw  Him  he  heard  Him  say,  '  Behold  the  mantle  given  to 
Me  by  Martin  —  yet  but  a  Catechumen  ! '     After  that  vision 
he  did  n't  wait  any  longer  ;  he  was  baptized  at  once. 

"  Mother  dear,  I  've  told  you  this  quite  truthfully,  but  I 
can't  tell  it  you  so  splendidly  as  my  engineer  did,  standing 


106  ON   GOD   AND   GODLIKE   MEN 

with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  holding  out  his  cape,  and  draw- 
ing his  sword  to  show  me  how  Martin  divided  his  cloak  with 
the  beggar.  Aunt  Adelaide  is  n't  afraid  of  swords,  she  is  too 
used  to  them,  but  she  says  she  thinks  soldiers  do  things  in 
huts  they  would  never  think  of  doing  in  big  rooms,  just  to 
show  how  neatly  they  can  manage,  without  hurting  anything. 
The  Chaplain  broke  the  chair,  but  then  he  is  n't  exactly  a 
soldier,  and  the  D.  A.  Q.  M.  G.  that  I  told  you  of,  comes  in 
sometimes  and  says,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Jones,  but  I 
must,'  —  and  puts  both  his  hands  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and 
lifts  his  body  till  he  gets  his  legs  sticking  straight  out.  They 
are  very  long  legs,  and  he  and  the  sofa  go  nearly  across  the 
room,  but  he  never  kicks  anything,  it 's  a  kind  of  athletics ; 
and  there  's  another  officer  who  comes  in  at  one  door  and 
Catherine-wheels  right  across  to  the  farthest  corner,  and  he 
is  over  six  foot,  too,  but  they  never  break  anything.  We  do 
laugh. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  my  engineer  doing  St.  Mar- 
tin. He  had  to  go  directly  afterwards,  and  then  the  Chaplain 
came  and  stood  in  front  of  me,  on  the  hearth-rug,  in  the  fire- 
light, just  where  my  engineer  had  been  standing,  and  he  took 
up  the  picture,  and  looked  at  it.  So  I  said,'*  Do  you  know 
about  St.  Martin  ? '  and  he  said  he  did,  and  he  said,  '  One  of 
the  greatest  of  those  many  Soldiers  of  the  Cross  who  have 
also  fought  under  earthly  banners.'  Then  he  put  down  the 
picture,  and  got  hold  of  his  elbow  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  was 
holding  his  surplice  out  of  the  way,  and  said,  '  Great,  as  well 
as  good,  for  this  reason  :  he  was  one  of  those  rare  souls  to 
whom  the  counsels  of  God  are  clear,  not  to  the  utmost  of 
the  times  in  which  he  lived  —  but  in  advance  of  those  times. 
Such  men  are  not  always  popular,  nor  even  largely  successful 
in  their  day,  but  the  light  they  hold  lightens  more  generations 


WE   BUILD   OUR  TRUST.  IO7 

of  this  naughty  world,  than  the  pious  tapers  of  commoner 
men.  You  know  that  Martin  the  Catechumen  became  Mar- 
tin the  Saint  —  do  you  know  that  Martin  the  Soldier  became 
Martin  the  Bishop  ?  —  and  that  in  an  age  of  credulity  and 
fanaticism,  that  man  of  God  discredited  some  relics  very 
popular  with  the  pious  in  his  diocese,  and  proved  and  ex- 
posed them  to  be  those  of  an  executed  robber.  Later  in  life 
it  is  recorded  of  Martin,  Bishop  of  Tours,  that  he  lifted  his 
voice  in  protest  against  persecutions  for  religion,  and  the 
punishment  of  heretics.  In  the  nineteenth  century  we  are 
little  able  to  judge,  how  great  must  have  been  the  faith  of 
that  man  in  the  God  of  truth  and  of  love.'  It  was  like  a 
little  sermon,  and  I  think  this  is  exactly  how  he  said  it,  for 
I  got  Aunt  Adelaide  to  write  it  out  for  me  this  morning,  and 
she  remembers  sermons  awfully  well.  I  've  been  looking  St. 
Martin  out  in  the  calendar  ;  his  day  is  the  nth  of  November. 
He  is  not  a  Collect,  Epistle,  and  Gospel  Saint,  only  one  of 
the  Black  Letter  ones;  but  the  nth  of  November  is  going 
to  be  on  a  Sunday  this  year,  and  I  am  so  glad,  for  I  've  asked 
our  Chaplain  if  we  may  have  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn  for  St. 
Martin  —  and  he  has  given  leave. 

"  It 's  a  long  way  off ;  I  wish  it  came  sooner.  So  now, 
Mother  dear,  you  have  time  to  make  your  arrangements  as 
you  like,  but  you  see  that  whatever  happens,  /  must  be  in 
Camp  on  St.  Martin's  Day. 

"  Your  loving  and  dutiful  son, 

"  Leonard." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  I  have  fought  a  good  fight.     I  have  finished  my  course.     I  have 
kept  the  faith.     Henceforth  —  1 " 

I  Tim.  iv.  7. 


T  was  Sunday. 
Sunday,    the 
tenth    of   No- 
vember —  St. 
Martin's  Day. 
Though     it 
was    in    No- 
vember,    a 
summer    day. 
A  day  of  that 
Little     Sum- 
mer which  alternately  claims  St.  Luke 
and  St.  Martin  as  its  patrons,  and  is 
apt  to  shine  its  brightest  when  it  can 
claim    both  —  on    the    feast    of   All 
Saints. 

Sunday  in  camp.  With  curious  points  of  likeness 
and  unlikeness  to  English  Sundays  elsewhere.  Like 
in  that  general  aspect  of  tidiness  and  quiet,  of  gravity 
and  pause,  which  betrays  that  a  hard-working  and 
very  practical  people  have  thought  good  to  keep 
much  of  the  Sabbath  with  its  Sunday.     Like,  too,  in 


SAINT   MARTINS   DAY.  109 

the  little  groups  of  children,  gay  in  Sunday  best,  and 
grave  with  Sunday  books,  trotting  to  Sunday  school. 

Unlike,  in  that  to  see  all  the  men  about  the  place 
washed  and  shaved  is  not,  among  soldiers,  peculiar  to 
Sunday.  Unlike,  also,  in  a  more  festal  feeling  pro- 
duced by  the  gay  gatherings  of  men  and  officers  on 
Church  Parade  (far  distant  be  the  day  when  Parade 
Services  shall  be  abolished!),  and  by  the  exhilarat- 
ing sounds  of  the  Bands  with  which  each  regiment 
marched  from  its  parade-ground  to  the  church. 

Here  and  there  small  detachments  might  be  met 
making  their  way  to  the  Roman  Catholic  church  in 
camp,  or  to  places  of  worship  of  various  denomina- 
tions in  the  neighboring  town ;  and  on  Blind  Baby's 
Parade  (where  he  was  prematurely  crushing  his  Sun- 
day frock  with  his  drum-basket  in  ecstatic  sympathy 
with  the  bands),  a  corporal  of  exceptional  views  was 
parading  himself  and  two  privates  of  the  same  de- 
nomination, before  marching  the  three  of  them  to 
their  own  peculiar  prayer-meeting. 

The  Brigade  for  the  Iron  Church  paraded  early 
(the  sunshine  and  sweet  air  seemed  to  promote  alac- 
rity). And  after  the  men  were  seated  their  officers 
still  lingered  outside,  chatting  with  the  ladies  and  the 
Staff,  as  these  assembled  by  degrees,  and  sunning 
themselves  in  the  genial  warmth  of  St.  Martin's  Little 
Summer. 

The  V.  C.  was  talking  with  the  little  boys  in  sailor 
suits  and  their  mother,  when  the  officer  who  played 
the  organ  came  towards  them. 


IIO  SAINT   MARTIN'S   DAY. 

"  Good  morning,  Kapellmeister !  "  said  two  or  three 
voices. 

Nicknames  were  common  in  the  camp,  and  this  one 
had  been  rapidly  adopted. 

"  Ye  look  cloudy  this  fine  morning,  Kapellmeister ! " 
cried  the  Irish  officer.     "  Got  the  toothache?" 

The  Kapellmeister  shook  his  head,  and  forced  a 
smile  which  rather  intensified  than  diminished  the 
gloom  of  a  countenance  which  did  not  naturally  lend 
itself  to  lines  of  levity.  Was  he  not  a  Scotchman  and 
also  a  musician?  His  lips  smiled  in  answer  to  the 
chaff,  but  his  sombre  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  V.  C. 
They  had  —  as  some  eyes  have  —  an  odd,  summoning 
power,  and  the  V.  C.  went  to  meet  him. 

When  he  said,  "  I  was  in  there  this  morning,"  the 
V.  C.  's  eyes  followed  the  Kapellmeister's  to  the  Bar- 
rack Master's  hut,  and  his  own  face  fell. 

"  He  wants  the  Tug-of-War  Hymn,"  said  the  Kapell- 
meister. 

"  He  's  not  coming  to  church?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  he 's  set  his  heart  on  hearing  the 
Tug-of-War  Hymn  through  his  bedroom  window; 
and  it  seems  the  Chaplain  has  promised  we  shall  have 
it  to-day.  It's  a  most  amazing  thing,"  added  the 
Kapellmeister,  shooting  out  one  arm  with  a  gesture 
common  to  him  when  oppressed  by  an  idea,  —  "  it 's 
a  most  amazing  thing !  For  I  think,  if  I  were  in  my 
grave,  that  hymn  —  as  these  men  bolt  with  it  —  might 
make  me  turn  in  my  place  of  rest;  but  it's  the  last 
thing  I    should    care   to    hear  if  I  were"    ill  in  bed ! 


ES   GILT   AM   ENDE   DOCH   NUR   VORWARTS  !     Ill 

However,  he  wants  it,  poor  lad,  and  he  asked  me  to 
ask  you  if  you  would  turn  outside  when  it  begins,  and 
sing  so  that  he  can  hear  your  voice  and  the  words." 
"  Oh,  he  can  never  hear  me  over  there ! " 
"He  can  hear  you  fast  enough!  It's  quite  close. 
He  begged  me  to  ask  you,  and  I  was  to  say  it's  his 
last  Sunday." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  V.  C.  looked  at  the  little 
"  Officers'  Door,"  which  was  close  to  his  usual  seat, 
which  always  stood  open  in  summer  weather,  and 
half  in  half  out  of  which  men  often  stood  in  the  crush 
of  a  Parade  Service.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  the 
matter  except  his  own  intense  dislike  to  anything 
approaching  to  display.  Also  he  had  become  more 
attached  than  he  could  have  believed  possible  to  the 
gallant-hearted  child  whose  worship  of  him  had  been 
flattery  as  delicate  as  it  was  sincere.  It  was  no  small 
pain  to  know  that  the  boy  lay  dying — a  pain  ne 
would  have  preferred  to  bear  in  silence. 
"Is  he  very  much  set  upon  it?  " 
"  Absolutely." 

"Is  she  —  is  Lady  Jane  there?" 
"All  of  them.     He  can't  last  the  day  out." 
"When  will  it  be  sung  —  that  hymn,  I  mean?" 
"  I  've  put  it  on  after  the  third  Collect." 
"  All  right." 

The  V.  C.  took  up  his  sword  and  went  to  his  seat, 
and  the  Kapellmeister  took  up  his  and  went  to  the 
organ. 


112  BEYOND   THE   VEIL. 

In  the  Barrack  Master's  Hut  my  hero  lay  dying. 
His  mind  was  now  absolutely  clear,  but  during  the 
night  it  had  wandered  —  wandered  in  a  delirium  that 
was  perhaps  some  solace  of  his  sufferings,  for  he  had 
believed  himself  to  be  a  soldier  on  active  service, 
bearing  the  brunt  of  battle  and  the  pain  of  wounds; 
and  when  fever  consumed  him,  he  thought  it  was  the 
heat  of  India  that  parched  his  throat  and  scorched  his 
skin,  and  called  again  and  again  in  noble  raving  to 
imaginary  comrades  to  keep  up  heart  and  press 
forward. 

About  four  o'clock  he  sank  into  stupor,  and  the 
Doctor  forced  Lady  Jane  to  go  and  lie  down,  and 
the  Colonel  took  his  wife  away  to  rest  also. 

At  Gun-fire  Leonard  opened  his  eyes.  For  some 
minutes  he  gazed  straight  ahead  of  him,  and  the  Mas- 
ter of  the  House,  who  sat  by  his  bedside,  could  not  be 
sure  whether  he  were  still  delirious  or  no ;  but  when 
their  eyes  met  he  saw  that  Leonard's  senses  had  re- 
turned to  him,  and  kissed  the  wan  little  hand  that  was 
feeling  about  for  The  Sweep's  head  in  silence  that  he 
almost  feared  to  break. 

Leonard  broke  in  by  saying,  "  When  did  you  bring 
Uncle  Rupert  to  Camp,  Father  dear?" 

"Uncle  Rupert  is  at  home,  my  darling;  and  you 
are  in  Uncle  Henry's  hut." 

"  I  know  I  am ;  and  so  is  Uncle  Rupert.  He  is  at 
the  end  of  the  room  there.     Can't  you  see  him?" 

"  No,  Len ;  I  only  see  the  wall,  with  your  text  on 
it  that  poor  old  Father  did  for  you." 


BEYOND   THE  VEIL,  1 13 

"My  'Goodly  heritage,'  you  mean?  I  can't  see 
that  now.  Uncle  Rupert  is  in  front  of  it.  I  thought 
you  put  him  there.  Only  he's  out  of  his  frame,  and 
—  it's  very  odd  !  " 

"What's  odd,  my  darling?" 

"  Some  one  has  wiped  away  all  the  tears  from  his 

it 

eyes. 

•  •••••• 

"  Hymn  two  hundred  and  sixty-three :  '  Fight  the 
good  fight  of  faith.'  " 

The  third  Collect  was  just  ended,  and  a  prolonged 
and  somewhat  irregular  Amen  was  dying  away  among 
the  Choir,  who  were  beginning  to  feel  for  their  hymn- 
books. 

The  lack  of  precision,  the  "dropping  shots"  style 
in  which  that  Amen  was  delivered,  would  have  been 
more  exasperating  to  the  Kapellmeister,  if  his  own 
attention  had  not  been  for  the  moment  diverted  by 
anxiety  to  know  if  the  V.  C.  remembered  that  the 
time  had  come. 

As  the  Chaplain  gave  out  the  hymn,  the  Kapell- 
meister gave  one  glance  of  an  eye,  as  searching  as 
it  was  sombre,  round  the  corner  of  that  odd  little 
curtain  which  it  is  the  custom  to  hang  behind  an 
organist;  and  this  sufficing  to  tell  him  that  the  V.  C. 
had  not  forgotten,  he  drew  out  certain  very  vocal 
stops,  and  bending  himself  to  manual  and  pedal,  gave 
forth  the  popular  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of-War  "  hymn 
with  a  precision  indicative  of  a  resolution  to  have  it 
sung  in  strict  time,  or  know  the  reason  why. 

8 


114  IF  THOU   BEAR  THY  CROSS 

Ana  as  nine  hundred  and  odd  men  rose  to  their  feet 
with  some  clatter  of  heavy  boots  and  accoutrements 
the  V.  C.  turned  quietly  out  of  the  crowded  church, 
and  stood  outside  upon  the  steps,  bare-headed  in  the 
sunshine  of  St.  Martin's  Little  Summer,  and  with 
the  tiniest  of  hymn-books  between  his  fingers  and 
thumb. 

Circumstances  had    made  a  soldier  of  the  V.  C. , 

but  by  nature  he  was  a  student.     When  he  brought 

the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes  to  get  a  mental  grasp 

of  the  hymn  before  he  began  to  sing  it,  he  committed 

the  first  four  lines  to  an  intelligence  sufficiently  trained 

to  hold  them  in  remembrance  for  the  brief  time  that 

it  would  take  to  sing  them.     Involuntarily  his  active 

brain  did  more,  and  was  crossed  by  a  critical  sense  of 

the  crude,  barbaric  taste  of  childhood,  and  a  wonder 

what  consolation  the  suffering  boy  could  find  in  these 

gaudy  lines :  — 

"  The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain  ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar : 
Who  follows  in  His  train  ?  " 

But  when  he  brought  the  little  hymn-book  to  his  eyes 
to  take  in  the  next  four  lines,  they  startled  him  with 
the  revulsion  of  a  sudden  sympathy ;  and  lifting  his 
face  towards  the  Barrack  Master's  Hut,  he  sang  —  as 
he  rarely  sang  in  drawing-rooms,  even  words  the  most 
felicitous  to  melodies  the  most  sweet  —  sang  not  only 
to  the  delight  of  dying  ears,  but  so  that  the  Kapell- 
meister himself  heard  him,  and  smiled  as  he  heard  :  — 


IT  WILL   BEAR  THEE.  115 

"Who  best  can  drink  His  cup  of  woe 
Triumphant  over  pain, 
Who  patient  bears  His  cross  below, 
He  follows  in  His  train." 


On  each  side  of  Leonard's  bed,  like  guardian  angels, 
knelt  his  father  and  mother.  At  his  feet  lay  The  Sweep, 
who  now  and  then  lifted  a  long,  melancholy  nose  and 
anxious  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  Barrack  Master. 
He  had  taken  up  this  position  at  the  request  of  the 
Master  of  the  House,  who  had  avoided  any  further 
allusion  to  Leonard's  fancy  that  their  Naseby  Ances- 
tor had  come  to  Asholt  Camp,  but  had  begged  his 
big;  brother-in-law  to  stand  there  and  blot  out  Uncle 
Rupert's  Ghost  with  his  substantial  body. 

But  whether   Leonard   perceived   the   ruse,  forgot 
Uncle  Rupert,  or  saw  him  all  the  same,  by  no  word  , 
or  sign  did  he  ever  betray. 

Near  the  window  sat  Aunt  Adelaide,  with  her 
Prayer-book,  following  the  service  in  her  own  orderly 
and  pious  fashion,  sometimes  saying  a  prayer  aloud 
at  Leonard's  bidding,  and  anon  replying  to  his  oft- 
repeated  inquiry:  "Is  it  the  third  Collect  yet,  Aunty 
dear?  " 

She  had  turned  her  head,  more  quickly  than  usual, 
to  speak,  when,  clear  and  strenuous  <^n  vocal  stops, 
came  the  melody  of  the  "  Tug-of-War"  hymn. 

"  There  !  There  it  is  !  Oh,  good  Kapellmeister ! 
Mother  dear,  please  go  to  the  window  and  see  if  V.  C. 


Il6  THUS  TO  THE   STARS 

is  there,  and  wave  your  hand  to  him.  Father  dear, 
lift  me  up  a  little,  please.  Ah,  now  I  hear  him ! 
Good  V.  C. !  I  don't  believe  you  '11  sing  better  than 
that  when  you  're  promoted  to  be  an  angel.  Are  the 
men  singing  pretty  loud?  May  I  have  a  little  of  that 
stuff  to  keep  me  from  coughing,  Mother  dear?  You 
know  I  am  not  impatient ;  but  I  do  hope,  please  God, 
I  sha'n't  die  till  I  've  just  heard  them  tug  that  verse 
once  more !  " 

•  ••••••• 

The  sight  of  Lady  Jane  had  distracted  the  V.  C.'s 
thoughts  from  the  hymn.  He  was  singing  mechanic- 
ally, when  he  became  conscious  of  some  increasing 
pressure  and  irregularity  in  the  time.  Then  he  re- 
membered what  it  was.  The  soldiers  were  beginning 
to  tug. 

In  a  moment  more  the  organ  stopped,  and  the  V.  C. 
found  himself,  with  over  three  hundred  men  at  his 
back,  singing  without  accompaniment,  and  in  unison — 

"  A  noble  army  —  men  and  boys, 
The  matron  and  the  maid, 
Around  their  Saviour's  throne  rejoice, 
In  robes  of  white  arrayed." 

The  Kapellmeister  conceded  that  verse  to  the 
shouts  of  the  congregation ;  but  he  invariably  re- 
claimed control  over  the  last. 

Even  now,  as  the  men  paused  to  take  breath  after 
their  "  tug,"  the  organ  spoke  again,  softly,  but  seraph- 
ically,  and  clearer  and  sweeter  above  the  voices  be- 


THUS   TO   THE   STARS  !  I  I  7 

hind  him  rose  the  voice  of  the  V.  C,  singing  to  his 
little  friend  — 

"  They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  of  Heaven, 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain  "  — 

The  men  sang  on;  but  the  V.  C.  stopped,  as  if  he 
had  been  shot.  For  a  man's  hand  had  come  to  the 
Barrack  Master's  window  and  pulled  the  white  blind 
down. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

;  He  that  hath  found  some  fledged-bird's  nest  may  know 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown."  —  Henry  Vaughan. 


RUE    to    its 
character     as 
an  emblem  of 
human   life, 
the    Camp 
stands    on, 
with   all    its 
little  manners 
and    customs, 
whilst    the 
men  who  gar- 
rison   it    pass 
rapidly  away. 
Strange    as 
the    vicissi- 
tudes   of    a 
whole    gener- 
ation  else- 
where,     are 
the    changes 
and    chances 
that    a    few 
years  bring  to 


those  who  were  stationed  there  together. 


UNWORLDLY   WISE.  IIQ 

To  what  unforeseen  celebrity  (or  to  a  dropping  out 
of  one's  life  and  even  hearsay  that  once  seemed  quite 
as  little  likely)  do  one's  old  neighbors  sometimes 
come !  They  seem  to  pass  in  a  few  drill  seasons  as 
other  men  pass  by  lifetimes.  Some  to  foolishness 
and  forgetfulness,  and  some  to  fame.  This  old  ac- 
quaintance to  unexpected  glory;  that  dear  friend — > 
alas  !  —  to  the  grave.  And  some  —  God  speed  them  ! 
—  to  the  world's  end  and  back,  following  the  drum 
till  it  leads  them  Home  again,  with  familiar  faces 
little  changed  —  with  boys  and  girls,  perchance,  very 
greatly  changed  —  and  with  hearts  not  changed  at  all. 
Can  the  last  parting  do  much  to  hurt  such  friendships 
between  good  souls,  who  have  so  long  learnt  to  say 
farewell ;  to  love  in  absence,  to  trust  through  silence, 
and  to  have  faith  in  reunion? 

The  Barrack  Master's  appointment  was  an  unusually 
permanent  one ;  and  he  and  his  wife  lived  on  in  Asholt 
Camp,  and  saw  regiments  come  and  go,  as  O'Reilly 
had  prophesied,  and  threw  out  additional  rooms  and 
bow-windows,  and  took  in  more  garden,  and  kept 
a  cow  on  a  bit  of  Government  grass  beyond  the 
stores,  and — with  the  man  who  did  the  roofs,  the 
church  orderly,  and  one  or  two  other  public  char- 
acters —  came  to  be  reckoned  among  the  oldest 
inhabitants. 

George  went  away  pretty  soon  with  his  regiment. 
He  was  a  good,  straightforward  young  fellow,  with  a 
dogged  devotion  to  duty,  and  a  certain  provincialism 
of  intellect,  and  general  John  Bullishness,  which  he 


120  UNWORLDLY   WISE. 

inherited  from  his  father,  who  had  inherited  it  from 
his  country  forefathers.  He  inherited  equally  a 
certain  romantic,  instinctive,  and  immovable  high- 
mindedness,  not  invariably  characteristic  of  much 
more  brilliant  men. 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  his  little  cousin,  and 
Leonard's  death  was  a  natural  grief  to  him.  The 
funeral  tried  his  fortitude,  and  his  detestation  of 
"  scenes,"  to  the  very  uttermost. 

Like  most  young  men  who  had  the  honor  to  know 
her,  George's  devotion  to  his  beautiful  and  gracious 
aunt,  Lady  Jane,  had  had  in  it  something  of  the 
nature  of  worship ;  but  now  he  was  almost  glad  he 
was  going  away,  and  not  likely  to  see  her  face  for  a 
long  time,  because  it  made  him  feel  miserable  to  see 
her,  and  he  objected  to  feeling  miserable  both  on 
principle  and  in  practice.  His  peace  of  mind  was 
assailed,  however,  from  a  wholly  unexpected  quarter, 
and  one  which  pursued  him  even  more  abroad  than 
at  home. 

The  Barrack  Master's  son  had  been  shocked  by  his 
cousin's  death ;  but  the  shock  was  really  and  truly 
greater  when  he  discovered,  by  chance  gossip,  and 
certain  society  indications,  that  the  calamity  which 
left  Lady  jane  childless  had  made  him  his  Uncle's 
presumptive  heir.  The  almost  physical  disgust  which 
the  discovery  that  he  had  thus  acquired  some  little 
social  prestige  produced  in  this  subaltern  of  a  march- 
ing regiment  must  be  hard  to  comprehend  by  persons 
of  more  imagination  and  less  sturdy  independence, 


GOOD   NEWS   FROM   HOME.  121 

or  by  scholars  in  the  science  of  success.  But  man 
differs  widely  from  man,  and  it  is  true. 

He  had  been  nearly  two  years  in  Canada  when 
"  the  English  mail "  caused  him  to  fling  his  fur  cap 
into  the  air  with  such  demonstrations  of  delight  as 
greatly  aroused  the  curiosity  of  his  comrades,  and, 
as  he  bolted  to  his  quarters  without  further  explana- 
tion than  "  Good  news  from  home  !  "  a  rumor  was  for 
some  time  current  that  "  Jones  had  come  into  his 
fortune." 

Safe  in  his  own  quarters,  he  once  more  applied 
himself  to  his  mother's  letter,  and  picked  up  the 
thread  of  a  passage  which  ran  thus :  — 

"  Your  dear  father  gets  very  impatient,  and  I  long  to  be 
back  in  my  hut  again  and  see  after  my  flowers,  which  I  can 
trust  to  no  one  since  O'Reilly  took  his  discharge.  The  little 
conservatory  is  like  a  new  toy  to  me,  but  it  is  very  tiny,  and 
your  dear  father  is  worse  than  no  use  in  it,  as  he  says  himself. 
However,  I  can't  leave  Lady  Jane  till  she  is  quite  strong. 
The  baby  is  a  noble  little  fellow  and  really  beautiful  —  which 
I  know  you  won't  believe,  but  that 's  because  you  know  noth- 
ing about  babies  :  not  as  beautiful  as  Leonard,  of  course  — 
that  could  never  be  —  but  a  fine,  healthy,  handsome  boy, 
with  eyes  that  do  remind  one  of  his  darling  brother.  I  know, 
dear  George,  how  greatly  you  always  did  admire  and  appre- 
ciate your  Aunt.  Not  one  bit  too  much,  my  son.  She  is  the 
noblest  woman  I  have  ever  known.  We  have  had  a  very 
happy  time  together,  and  I  pray  it  may  please  God  to  spare 
this   child  to  be  the  comfort  to  her  that  you  are  and  have 

been  to 

"Your  loving  Mother." 


122  GOOD   NEWS   FROM   HOME. 

This  was  the  good  news  from  home  that  had  sent 
the  young  subaltern's  fur  cap  into  the  air,  and  that 
now  sent  him  to  his  desk;  the  last  place  where,  as  a 
rule,  he  enjoyed  himself.  Poor  scribe  as  he  was,  how- 
ever, he  wrote  two  letters  then  and  there :  one  to  his 
mother,  and  one  of  impetuous  congratulations  to  his 
uncle,  full  of  messages  to  Lady  Jane. 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter  more  than 
once.     It  pleased  him. 

In  his  own  way  he  was  quite  as  unworldly  as  his 
nephew,  but  it  was  chiefly  from  a  philosophic  con- 
tempt for  many  things  that  worldly  folk  struggle  for, 
and  a  connoisseurship  in  sources  of  pleasure  not  pur- 
chasable except  by  the  mentally  endowed,  and  not 
even  valuable  to  George,  as  he  knew.  And  he  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  a  somewhat  cynical  student  of 
character. 

After  the  third  reading  he  took  it,  smiling,  to  Lady 
Jane's  morning-room,  where  she  was  sitting,  looking 
rather  pale,  with  her  fine  hair  "  coming  down  "  over  a 
tea-gown  of  strange  tints  of  her  husband's  choosing, 
and  with  the  new  baby  lying  in  her  lap. 

He  shut  the  door  noiselessly,  took  a  footstool  to  her 
feet,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"You  look  like  a  Romney,  Jane,  —  an  unfinished 
Romney,  for  you  are  too  white.  If  you've  got  a 
headache,  you  sha'n't  hear  this  letter,  which  I  know 
you  'd  like  to  hear." 

"I  see  that  I  should.  Canada  post-marks.  It's 
George." 


MORE   PRECIOUS   THAN   RUBIES.  1 23 

n  Yes ;  it 's  Qeorge.  He 's  uproariously  delighted  at 
the  advent  of  this  little  chap." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  he  'd  be  that.  Let  me  hear  what  he 
says." 

The  Master  of  the  House  read  the  letter.  Lady 
fane's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  tender  references  to 
Leonard,  but  she  smiled  through  them. 

"He's  a  dear,  good  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  dear,  good  fellow.  It 's  a  most  borni  in- 
tellect, but  excellence  itself.  And  I'm  bound  to  say," 
added  the  Master  of  the  House,  driving  his  hands 
through  the  jungle  of  his  hair,  "  that  there  is  a  certain 
excellence  about  a  soldier  when  he  is  a  good  fellow 
that  seems  to  be  a  thing  per  se." 

After  meditating  on  this  matter  for  some  moments, 
he  sprang  up  and  vigorously  rang  the  bell. 

"Jane,  you  're  terribly  white  ;  you  can  bear  nothing. 
Nurse  is  to  take  that  brat  at  once,  and  I  'm  going  to 
carry  you  into  the  garden." 

Always  much  given  to  the  collection  and  care  of 
precious  things,  and  apt  also  to  change  his  fads  and  to 
pursue  each  with  partiality  for  the  moment,  the 
Master  of  the  House  had,  for  some  time  past,  been 
devoting  all  his  thoughts  and  his  theories  to  the  pres- 
ervation of  a  possession  not  less  valuable  than  the 
paragon  of  Chippendale  chairs,  and  much  more  de- 
structible —  he  was  taking  care  of  his  good  wife. 

Many  family  treasures  are  lost  for  lack  of  a  little 
timely  care  and  cherishing,  and  there  are  living  "  ex- 
amples "  as  rare  as   most  bric-a-brac,   and    quite    as 


124       I   LIST  NO   MORE  THE  TUCK  OF  DRUM. 

perishable.  Lady  Jane  was  one  of  them,  and  after 
Leonard's  death,  with  no  motive  for  keeping  up,  she 
sank  into  a  condition  of  weakness  so  profound  that  it 
became  evident  that,  unless  her  failing  forces  were 
fostered,  she  would  not  long  be  parted  from  her  son. 

Her  husband  had  taken  up  his  poem  again,  to  di- 
vert his  mind  from  his  own  grief;  but  he  left  it 
behind,  and  took  Lady  Jane  abroad. 

Once  roused,  he  brought  to  the  task  of  coaxing  her 
back  to  life  an  intelligence  that  generally  insured  the 
success  of  his  aims,  and  he  succeeded  now.  Lady 
Jane  got  well ;   out  of  sheer  gratitude,  she  said. 

Leonard's  military  friends  do  not  forget  him.  They 
are  accustomed  to  remember  the  absent. 

With  the  death  of  his  little  friend  the  V.  C.  quits 
these  pages.  He  will  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
history. 

The  Kapellmeister  is  a  fine  organist,  and  a  few 
musical  members  of  the  congregation,  of  all  ranks, 
have  a  knack  of  lingering  after  Even-song  at  the  Iron 
Church  to  hear  him  "  play  away  the  people."  But 
on  the  Sunday  after  Leonard's  death  the  congrega- 
tion rose  and  remained  en  masse  as  the  Dead  March 
from  Saul  spoke  in  solemn  and  familiar  tones  the 
requiem  of  a  hero's  soul. 

Blind  Baby's  father  was  a  Presbyterian,  and  disap- 
proved of  organs,  but  he  was  a  fond  parent,  and  his 
blind  child  had  heard  tell  that  the  officer  who  played 
the  organ  so  grandly  was  to  play  the  Dead  March  on 
the  Sabbath  evening  for  the  little  gentleman  that  died 


I   LIST   NO   MORE  THE  TUCK   OF   DRUM.         1 25 

on  the  Sabbath  previous,  and  he  was  wild  to  go  and 
hear  it.  Then  the  service  would  be  past,  and  the 
Kapellmeister  was  a  fellow-Scot,  and  the  house  of 
mourning  has  a  powerful  attraction  for  that  serious 
race,  and  for  one  reason  or  another  Corporal  Mac- 
donald  yielded  to  the  point  of  saying,  "  Aweel,  if 
you  're  a  gude  bairn,  I  '11  tak  ye  to  the  kirk  door, 
and  ye  may  lay  your  lug  at  the  chink,  and  hear  what 
ye  can." 

But  when  they  got  there  the  door  was  open,  and 
Blind  Baby  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  as  if 
the  organ  had  drawn  him  with  a  rope,  straight  to  the 
Kapellmeister's  side. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  much  to  Blind 
Baby's  advantage,  which  did  not  end  when  the  child 
had  been  sent  to  a  Blind  School,  and  then  to  a  col- 
lege where  he  learnt  to  be  a  tuner,  and  "  earned  his 
own  living." 

Poor  Jemima  fretted  so  bitterly  for  the  loss  of  the 
child  she  had  nursed  with  such  devotion,  that  there 
was  possibly  some  truth  in  O'Reilly's  rather  compli- 
cated assertion  that  he  married  her  because  he  could 
not  bear  to  see  her  cry. 

He  took  his  discharge,  and  was  installed  by  the 
Master  of  the  House  as  lodge-keeper  at  the  gates 
through  which  he  had  so  often  passed  as  "a  tidy 
one. 

Freed  from  military  restraints,  he  became  a  very 
untidy  one  indeed,  and  grew  hair  in  such  reckless 
abundance  that  he  came  to  look  like  an  ourang-ou- 


125  WHAT   IS    HOME,   AND   WHERE? 

tang  with  an  unusually  restrained  figure  and  excep- 
tionally upright  carriage. 

He  was  the  best  of  husbands  every  day  in  the  year 
but  the  seventeenth  of  March;  and  Jemima  enjoyed 
herself  very  much  as  she  boasted  to  the  wives  of  less 
handy  civilians  that  "  her  man  was  as*  good  as  a 
woman  about  the  house,  any  day."  (Any  day,  that 
is,  except  the  seventeenth  of  March.) 

With  window-plants  cunningly  and  ornamentally 
enclosed  by  a  miniature  paling  and  gate,  as  if  the  win- 
dow-sill were  a  hut  garden ;  with  colored  tissue-paper 
fly-catchers  made  on  the  principle  of  barrack-room 
Christmas  decorations ;  with  shelves,  brackets,  Oxford 
frames,  and  other  efforts  of  the  decorative  joinery  of 
O'Reilly's  evenings ;  with  a  large,  hard  sofa,  chairs, 
elbow-chairs,  and  antimacassars ;  and  with  a  round 
table  in  the  middle  —  the  Lodge  parlor  is  not  a  room 
to  live  in,  but  it  is  almost  bewildering  to  peep  into, 
and  curiously  like  the  shrine  of  some  departed  saint, 
so  highly  framed  are  the  photographs  of  Leonard's 
lovely  face,  and  so  numerous  are  his  relics. 

The  fate  of  Leonard's  dog  may  not  readily  be 
guessed. 

The  gentle  reader  would  not  deem  it  unnatural 
were  I  to  chronicle  that  he  died  of  a  broken  heart. 
Failing  this  excess  of  sensibility,  it  seems  obvious  that 
he  should  have  attached  himself  immovably  to  Lady 
Jane,  and  have  lived  at  ease  and  died  full  of  dignity  in 
his  little  master's  ancestral  halls.  He  did  go  back 
there  for  a  short  time,  but  the  day  after  the  funeral  he 


—  BUT   WITH   THE   LOVING.  1 27 

disappeared.  When  word  came  to  the  household  that 
he  was  missing  and  had  not  been  seen  since  he  was 
let  out  in  the  morning,  the  butler  put  on  his  hat  and 
hurried  off  with  a  beating  heart  to  Leonard's  grave. 

But  The  Sweep  was  not  there,  dead  or  alive.  He 
was  at  that  moment  going  at  a  sling  trot  along  the 
dusty  road  that  led  into  the  Camp.  Timid  persons, 
imperfectly  acquainted  with  dogs,  avoided  him ;  he 
went  so  very  straight,  it  looked  like  hydrophobia ;  men 
who  knew  better,  and  saw  that  he  was  only  "  on  ur- 
gent private  affairs,"  chaffed  him  as  they  passed,  and 
some  with  little  canes  and  horseplay  waylaid  and 
tried  to  intercept  him.  But  he  was  a  big  dog,  and 
made  himself  respected,  and  pursued  his  way. 

His  way  was  to  the  Barrack  Master's  hut. 

The  first  room  he  went  into  was  that  in  which 
Leonard  died.  He  did  not  stay  there  three  minutes. 
Then  he  went  to  Leonard's  own  room,  the  little  one 
next  to  the  kitchen,  and  this  he  examined  exhaust- 
ively, crawling  under  the  bed,  snuffing  at  both  doors, 
and  lifting  his  long  nose  against  hope  to  investigate 
impossible  places,  such  as  the  top  of  the  military 
chest  of  drawers.  Then  he  got  on  to  the  late  Gen- 
eral's camp  bed  and  went  to  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  smell  of  the  bacon  fry- 
ing for  breakfast,  and  he  had  breakfast  with  the 
family.  After  this  he  went  out,  and  was  seen  by  dif- 
ferent persons  at  various  places  in  the  Camp,  the  Gen- 
eral Parade,  the  Stores,  and  the  Iron  Church,  still 
searching. 


128  WHAT   IS   HOME,   ETC. 

He  was  invited  to  dinner  in  at  least  twenty  different 
barrack-rooms,  but  he  rejected  all  overtures  till  he 
met  O'Reilly,  when  he  turned  round  and  went  back 
to  dine  with  him  and  his  comrades. 

He  searched  Leonard's  room  once  more,  and  not 
finding  him,  he  refused  to  make  his  home  with  the 
Barrack  Master ;  possibly  because  he  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  to  have  a  home  at  all  till  he  could  have 
one  with  Leonard. 

Half-a-dozen  of  Leonard's  officer  friends  would 
willingly  have  adopted  him,  but  he  would  not  own 
another  master.  Then  military  dogs  are  apt  to  attach 
themselves  exclusively  either  to  commissioned  or  to 
non  commissioned  soldiers,  and  The  Sweep  cast  in  his 
lot  with  the  men,  and  slept  on  old  coats  in  corners  of 
barrack-rooms,  and  bided  his  time.  Dogs'  masters 
do  get  called  away  suddenly  and  come  back  again. 
The  Sweep  had  his  hopes,  and  did  not  commit  him- 
self. 

Even  if,  at  length,  he  realized  that  Leonard  had 
passed  beyond  this  life's  outposts,  it  roused  in  him 
no  instincts  to  return  to  the  Hall.  With  a  somewhat 
sublime  contempt  for  those  shreds  of  poor  mortality 
laid  to  rest  in  the  family  vault,  he  elected  to  live 
where  his  little  master  had  been  happiest  —  in  Asholt 
Camp. 

Now  and  then  he  became  excited.  It  was  when  a 
fresh  regiment  marched  in.  On  these  occasions  he 
invariably  made  so  exhaustive  an  examination  of  the 
regiment  and  its  baggage,  as  led  to  his  being  more 


NOT   LOST,   BUT   GONE   BEFORE.  1 29 

or  less  forcibly  adopted  by  half-a-dozen  good-natured 
soldiers  who  had  had  to  leave  their  previous  pets 
behind  them.  But  when  he  found  that  Leonard  had 
not  returned  with  that  detachment,  he  shook  off  every- 
body and  went  back  to  O'Reilly. 

When  O'Reilly  married,  he  took  The  Sweep  to  the 
Lodge,  who  thereupon  instituted  a  search  about  the 
house  and  grounds ;  but  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
not  expected  any  good  results,  and  when  he  did  not 
find  Leonard  he  went  away  quickly  down  the  old 
Elm  Avenue.  As  he  passed  along  the  dusty  road 
that  led  to  Camp  for  the  last  time,  he  looked  back 
now  and  again  with  sad  eyes  to  see  if  O'Reilly  was  not 
coming:  too.  Then  he  returned  to  the  Barrack  Room, 
where  he  was  greeted  with  uproarious  welcome,  and 
eventually  presented  with  a  new  collar  by  subscrip- 
tion. And  so,  rising  with  gun-fire  and  resting  with 
"lights  out,"  he  lived  and  died  a  soldier's  Dog. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The  new  heir  thrives  at  the  Hall.  He  has  brothers 
and  sisters  to  complete  the  natural  happiness  of  his 
home,  he  has  good  health,  good  parents,  and  is  having 
a  good  education.  He  will  have  a  goodly  heritage. 
He  is  developing  nearly  as  vigorous  a  fancy  for  sol- 
diers as  Leonard  had,  and  drills  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters with  the  help  of  O'Reilly.  If  he  wishes  to  make 
arms  his  profession  he  will  not  be  thwarted,  for  the 
Master  of  the  House  has  decided  that  it  is  in  many 
respects  a  desirable  and  wholesome  career  for  an  eldest 
son.     Lady  Jane  may  yet  have  to  buckle  on  a  hero's 

9 


130  NOT   LOST,    BUT   GONE   BEFORE. 

sword.  Brought  up  by  such  a  mother  in  the  fear  of 
God,  he  ought  to  be  good,  he  may  live  to  be  great, 
it's  odds  if  he  cannot  be  happy.  But  never,  not  in 
the  "  one  crowded  hour  of  glorious  "  victory,  not  in 
years  of  the  softest  comforts  of  a  peaceful  home,  by 
no  virtues  and  in  no  success  shall  he  bear  more  fitly 
than  his  crippled  brother  bore  the  ancient  motto 
of  their  house: 

"  3L*ttt0  Sarte  JHca." 


THE    END. 


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WE  AND  THE  WORLD. 

A  Story  for  Boys.    With  10  illustrations.    i6mo.    Cloth.  50  cts 

MRS.   OVERTHEWAYS   REMEMBRANCES. 

Ten  illustrations  161110.  Cloth.  50  cts.  A  Series  of  Short 
Stories  which  are  supposed  to  be  told  by  a  nice  old  lady  to  a  little 
girl  invalid. 

JACKANAPES,  and  Other  Tales. 

Comprising  "  Jackanapes,"  "  Daddy  Darwin's  Dovecot,"  and 
"  The  Story  of  a  Short  Life."  With  a  sketch  of  Mrs.  Ewing's 
Life,  by  her  sister,  Horatia  K.  F.  Gatty.  With  portrait  and  illus- 
trations.    i6mo.     Cloth.    50  cents. 

MELCHIOR'S   DREAM,  BROTHERS   OF  PITY,  and 
Other  Tales. 

With  illustrations.     i6mo.     Cloth.    50  cents. 

LOB    LIE-BY-THE-FIRE,    THE    BROWNIES,     and 
Other  Tales. 

With  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
50  cents. 

A  ELATIRON  FOR  A  FARTHING. 

With  illustrations.     i6mo.     Cloth.     Price,  50  cents. 


MRS.   EWING'S    STORY   BOOKS. 


"  Never  was  there  another  story  teller  like  Mrs.  Ewing.  She  has  genius. 
She  does  not  use  a  word  too  much  or  a  word  too  little,  when  she  is  at  her 
best ;  and  she  is  at  her  best  very  often,  although  she  has  written  an  immense 
number  of  tales.  She  does  not  preach,  but  her  stories  are  better  than 
sermons.  They  touch  the  heart,  they  enlarge  the  sympathy,  they  excite 
every  tender  and  noble  emotion,  they  encourage  religious  feeling,  and  they 
deepen  scorn  for  all  that  is  mean  and  cowardly.  They  have  abundance  of 
fresh,  delightful  fun,  and  a  pathos  so  true  and  deep  that  there  are  many  of 
her  stories  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  without  tears.  There  is  nothing 
forced  in  her  plots  or  her  style.  Her  characters  are  natural,  human,  and 
have  an  indescribable  charm.  Children  are  delighted  with  her  stories,  and 
grown  people  rank  them  among  the  best  things  in  literature.  A  few  of  her 
earlier  tales  lack  the  exquisite  grace  and  marvellous  lightness  of  touch, 
which,  however,  were  to  her  a  gift  of  nature,  and  even  in  her  first  volume 
('  Melchior's  Dream  ')  there  is  work  which  she  has  never  surpassed  in 
beauty,  and  in  the  truth  and  tenderness  of  its  teaching.  '  Brothers  of 
Pity,'  the  leading  story  in  a  collection  of  '  Tales  of  Beasts  and  Men,'  is 
perfect.  It  is  original,  quaint,  wise  ;  it  nourishes  everything  that  is  lovely 
in  the  character  of  a  child,  and  gives  charming  glimpses  of  the  grandfather 
and  his  library.  '  Melchior's  Dream  '  is  an  allegory,  but  one  which  no 
reader  will  find  dull.  '  Toots  and  Boots  '  is  a  humorous  cat  story  ;  and 
'The  Blackbird's  Nest'  puts  the  moral  more  distinctly  than  Mrs.  Ewing 
often  allows  herself  to  do.  These  are  in  a  collection  of  Mrs.  Ewing's 
stories,  just  published  by  Roberts  Brothers,  who  have  republished  so  many 
of  her  little  books.  'Jackanapes'  and  'The  Story  of  a  Short  Life'  are 
generally  considered  the  best  of  her  stories,  the  finest  touch  of  her  genius. 
But  'Lob  Lie-by-the-Fire '  should  rank  with  them.  The  quaint,  kind, 
gentle,  innocent  little  old  ladies  of  Lingborough  are  as  sweet  and  original 
and  winning  as  any  old  ladies  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  fiction  ; 
and  the  pictures  of  country  life  are  exquisite  sketches  in  the  Crawford 
style,  but  too  full  of  Mrs.  Ewing's  own  spirit  and  genius  to  be  considered 
for  a  moment  as  imitations.  '  Lob  '  is  a  powerful  temperance  story,  and  one 
that  is  wholly  free  from  the  faults  that  make  nearly  all  temperance  stories 
undesirable  reading  for  young  people,  in  spite  of  the  important  lessons 
they  are  written  to  impress.  Neither  children  nor  their  elders  can  read  too 
many  of  Mrs.  Ewing's  stories.  Only  good  can  come  from  them ;  their 
influence  is  refining  and  ennobling."  —  Boston  Correspondent  of  the  Wor- 
cester Spy.  

Mrs.  Ewing's  "Jackanapes"  "Daddy  Darwin 's  Dovecot"  and 
"  The  Story  of  a  Short  Life  "  are  published  in  separate  volumes, 
beautifitlly  illustrated  and  bound  infancy  board  covers,  price  35  cents 
each.  For  a  list  of  all  of  Mrs.  Ewing's  books,  complete  in  nine 
volumes,  please  turn  over.  Ours  is  the  only  Uniform  Library 
Edition  to  be  had.  Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price,  by  the 
publishers, 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS,  Boston 


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